


Not So Much Falling at First

by the_demi_modest



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Mostly scared), (seriously though I do suck at tags so if you need me to add something please let me know), Chaos Theory, F/M, Gen, Good Omens Sequel, Happy to see the Bentley on a character list though, Hastur smokes like a chimney but if you're not immortal that's bad kids!, I suck at tags, I'll honestly try to post at least once a month, I'm also scared and excited all at once, I'm not sure what other tags to put, I've been putting it up on Tumblr for awhile though, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Other, Promise, Smoking, This is my first long work posted to Ao3, bad things happen but good things too and it works out in the end promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 156,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21744259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_demi_modest/pseuds/the_demi_modest
Summary: "Sorry?" said Aziraphale. "I thought thatwasthe big one.""I'm not sure," said Crowley. "Think about it. For my money, the really big one will be all of Us against all of Them.""What? You mean Heaven and Hell against humanity?"–Good Omens, Ch. 7After the world doesn't end, the angels and demons decide to set aside their differences and try again—at putting an end to it.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Dagon (Good Omens), Gabriel/Michael (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter the First - In the beginning...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Not many outside the immortals in the world knew Crowley was a demon. The only one who had ever asked why in all 6,000 years had received this answer: “I didn’t Fall so much as Saunter Vaguely Downward.”_

**I** n the beginning…

* * *

_Not many outside the immortals in the world knew Crowley was a demon. The only one who had ever asked why in all 6,000 years had received this answer: “I didn’t Fall so much as Saunter Vaguely Downward.”_

**_I_ ** _t had been the crowd really, he admitted that these days. Everyone loved an archangel. Lucifer had been absolutely charming, and there had been real trouble at work. The food had not been very good as of late, and that was just for starters..._

* * *

**N** ot-yet-Crowley had heard the word “rebellion” whispered around holy water coolers for days now. It hadn’t struck him as anything odd. It sounded new and exciting. Lucifer was thinking to rebel. Well, who didn’t like Lucifer?

The heavenly plain was crystalline and gold, a real lovely design, especially compared to the nothingness of before. Wheels turned with the soft chime of celestial gears. Principalities, Elementals, and the occasional young tutelary all busied themselves taking care of the brand new world.

Creation was just about finished. It was Day Five of the Seven-Day plan, and just yesterday Zaziel**—so he’d been called then—had tried his hand making stars go nova to create other stars. He’d been commended for the nebulae especially. 

It was good so far. Very good, getting better. By tomorrow, things might be peaches and… Well, he wasn’t sure what went with the peaches yet, but it could only be _good_. 

Today there would be birds and fish, but that was not his department, so he had the day off. Zaziel strolled nonchalantly by the crystal lake outside of the Veil. The Veil was a shimmering barrier, also crystalline and yet opaque, outside the Holy Throneroom. It was a shade no mortal eye would ever be able to describe. It always moved gently like water or silk touched by a breeze. It was the line between the hallowed and the holy.

Zaziel knew only archangels and the Metatron were permitted to ask direct questions of the Almighty One. But Zaziel was curious by nature. He had no reason to think he’d not been made this way. You never knew. Maybe there’d be an answer some day.

So humming the start of some poem to himself, he stopped to look out across the waters, and pretended to talk to himself. 

“Cutting it a bit close, making the sun after the plants, I thought,” he muttered loudly. “But then, should have known the A-One could impress. ‘Good show, A-One,’ I’d say. ‘Jolly good.’ Honestly, can’t think what we’ve got left but to put some feet on the ground on the land. It’d balance out the birds and the fish, I think. I’d love to know for certain…”

He eyed the water, then raised his voice a little louder, the way someone does who wants directions in a strange city but is too embarrassed to ask.

“I know what this needs,” he went on. “Things to walk by, other than the water: Off-set the tone. Maybe… places to eat or somewhere to sit and feed the ducks. I mean, I like the ducks. Suppose we could have some up here. No one would get sad looking at a duck…”

There was no answer, but Creation was young. Zaziel was at that time optimistic.

Eventually, he headed down the spheres to the holy water cooler. It was about nine in the morning. Some details you’d never forget. 

“What’s the Almighty need more persons for?” Bellaphon was asking. “And I like the five-day work week. Why two more days?

It was a knot of angels. Nothing new. But the _questions_ caught his attention. And the part about “more persons.”

“We already have so many kinds of angels,” said Darfriel, leaning this way and that to check for eavesdroppers. “I thought She said we were done the Second Day.”

“They’re not angels,” said Bellephon in a clear but drawling voice. “More fragile, for one thing. She’s calling them ‘Adam and Eve.’ ”

“No, no, I heard they’re called _humans_ ,” said Hastriel irritably. He was eating a plate of crisps from a sampler (some dining event planned a few thousand years from then that would involve quail). He spoke around crumbs. “Adam and Eve—that’s names. Like ours, but shorter.”

Zaziel chose this moment to lean in with a cup for the cooler. “What, no ‘els’ in?” he asked. He leaned back, casual as the sun had shone on Creation since yesterday, and inserted himself into their ring. “I thought we all had ‘els’ or ‘phons’ or ‘ales’ in.”

Bellaphon’s gaze narrowed. “No ‘els,” they said. “Not even wings, I heard.” 

“Have they done something wrong?”

“Course not,” said Hastriel, licking his salty fingers. “Not even born yet. Can’t have them falling from great heights, I suppose. Being squishy, meaty things, corporealated.”

“You didn’t hear what I heard from Lu,” said Dagnophon, who eyed the scowling Bellaphon with an endeared grin. “Them’s going to be the favorite. Them, something made from dirt.”

“What’s wrong with dirt?” asked Zaziel conversationally, and took a sip of his cup.

“Isn’t it so _unclean_?” asked Dagnophon.

“Well it wouldn’t grow gardens so well if it weren’t,” said Zaziel, who’d had a chat with that department two days prior. He found the subject of plant life fascinating.

“Do keep your voice down,” snapped Darfriel. He pointed upward. From anywhere in heaven, looking upward long enough brought view of the Veil. It shone silent and lovely. 

Not-yet-Crowley imagined he saw lightning flicker. 

“What’s going on?” he asked. He felt suddenly uneasy, like he’d rushed in where he proverbially wasn’t daring enough to tread. “I imagined you were talking administration.”

“We are talking Administration,” said Bellaphon sourly. [Author's note: Enochian, the language of angels, can pronoun capital letters, hyphenation, and even spelling.]

“Got a sticker for the pot?” asked Hastriel.

Zaziel thought about this. “I… I do wonder what it’s all for,” he said at last. “But I suppose my chief complaint is the music: Makes a day feel like a thousand years, don’t it, the way it goes on?”

They all stared at him, looking lost.

“I mean,” he went on, “I could probably fix up the harps. They’re the main problem: get an output of about ten more amps and about eight octaves. If I could just get a word with the conductor, we could add some percussion. I’ve been working on a lovely little ditty. Just have to get the words right…”

“What’s an amp?” asked Hastriel, perplexed.

They were interrupted by a flash of gliding lightning: An angel descending from the Veil. For an instant, it was like a falling star, but then it landed and folded splendid wings that threw out colored lights. The glory dimmed ever so slightly and he smiled. 

“Good morning, kindred.”

He was everything one might think hearing the words “Angel of Light” or “Son of the Morning” or “most beautiful among the angels.” He was Lucifer, the Chief Archangel and firstborn of all the angels of heaven. He wore seven stars in his crown.

He looked straight at Zaziel immediately. “Zaziel,” he said. His voice was like music. “I thought I heard your voice.”

Bellaphon dropped their water cup and Hastriel quickly wiped crumbs and salt from his lips with the back of his sleeve. (Somehow this just made him look more sticky.) 

The Morning Star smiled generously, which made him shine more. Only archangels could shine like that, and only one thing made that possible: Standing in the presence of the Almighty. Zaziel looked again at the silent Veil, and wished. He’d only been past it once. He’d been born and received his name. It was his first and only memory of Her, prevalent and yet barely there because he’d had nothing else to compare it to.

He looked back at Lucifer and suddenly there was nothing more important than not looking an idiot.

“Lu, ol’ buddy, how’re things Upstairs?” 

The angelic prince said melodiferously, “So glad you could join us. I hear you have questions.”

“Well, ah, yeah, I mean, I imagine anyone would. It’s a big new world. Questions are liable to abound. We’ve eternity to mull them over. I can’t say I mind.”

The Prince of Angels kept smiling and Zaziel found his throat going dry. 

“I’ve already been _mulling_ ,” Lucifer said. “About a job for you, in fact.”

“Are we… are we merging our departments then?”

“Something like that.”

* * *

**T** he name “Lucifer” means “light-bearer,” and that was what he was. It was a blinding light, but not of the eyes. This light blinded the mind and the spirit. It washed out thought’s color, so to speak. It soothed the heart with the eternal. It was the beauty every other angel remembered from their birth, and so trusted unquestioningly. 

Zaziel had never liked how being in Lu’s light made it hard to think though. He remembered thinking a lot when he was born, about everything. Even so, he couldn’t shake how it made him _feel_. With little more than an invitation, he now walked under the archangel’s wing almost shyly. He let his steps swivel from side to side, trying for casual and getting something more akin to manic, as he tried to keep his eyes forward.

“I’ve, uh, I’ve been working on a song.”

“Is that so?”

“Not quite right yet…”

“I look forward to hearing it.” the archangel’s smile made Zaziel glow. 

They reached the bulwarks of the Watchers’ observation center. There were magnifying windows, and from here they could see The Garden: Eden. Its four rivers glistened at every gate, running towards the cardinal points in the distance. It was greener than anywhere else on earth. It hadn’t been grown like the rest of the trees on the newborn planet. It was heavenly.

The Angel of Light said, “Beautiful, isn’t it? I saw Her making it. You should go there sometime, take it in.”

“We’re all going there soon, aren’t we?” Zaziel asked. “Some sort of ceremony?”

Lucifer drew a deep, tired sigh. His wings still threw off rainbows. “Yes.”

“So I’ve not had a chance to ask, but… What is a rebellion?” Zaziel asked. 

“I was only thinking about saying… no.”

 _No?_ Zaziel couldn’t believe his ears. No? No one said _no_. They might slouch and bless but there was no saying no to the Light. And yet... Lucifer was here, wearing that same light, wearing it beautifully. Could anything from such a light go against heaven?

It was such a small word too.

Lucifer said, “You know, She’s put the Trees there. Knowledge of Good and Evil. And the Tree of Life. Which do you think the humans will choose first?”

“Well, obviously they’d want life,” said Zaziel without hesitation.

Lucifer’s pale eyebrows lifted. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, I heard they’re not going to have wings. And they’ll need to eat and sleep and that sort of thing. The clear choice is to live forev…” He was interrupted because Lucifer took him suddenly by the shoulders and turned him to earnestly meet his eyes. In the same instant he’d arched his wings around them for a modicum of privacy. He glanced up at the Veil that hung over all places at all times. He looked… Zaziel tried to place that look. It wasn’t anger exactly. It was something else.

“Do you know what will happen if they do, Zaziel?”

“No. Wait, do you?”

Zaziel had a growing list of smiles in his memory. Dagnophon’s smile for Bellaphon, for example, was something to make any theologian question whether angels went in for sex. [Author's note: The answer is, about as much as they go in for dancing.] Michael’s smile was distant, smug, just begging to be messed with. And Dafriel had a special smile for lizards, which was understandable: They’d been his idea. 

But the smile that the Son of the Morning gave not-yet-Crowley now was... different. It sent chills up his spine, and Heaven and Earth were usually so warm. 

The prince leaned in close. “Nothing good,” he said. “She’ll be grooming them. She wants _them_ to be Her children. We’ll be slaves, Zaziel. They’ll replace us”

“What? No…”

“I heard the Almighty say it. She says she planned it all along, built it into policy. We were not loved, Zaziel. We were practice.”

Zaziel stepped back, out of the shadow of those comforting wings. No archangel ever revealed what was heard beyond the Veil. Never. But no angel had ever wanted to know so badly as Zaziel. 

He stood exposed, raw. The words sank in before he could stop them. They pierced. Not loved? _Not_ loved? Surely the Almighty loved everything She’d made. Wasn’t that only natural—or, rather, supernatural? Zaziel loved the stars and the novas and the nebulae. Why else make anything if not to love it? 

He tried to understand, “But if everything’s for them, then why…?”

“She wants them in that garden though. There’s something she wants them to do. On that day, when we’re all there, there’ll be a cherub guarding the gate, Zaziel. I ask you a question: Guarding it from what?”

“A cherub?” They were a match for strength against the archangels.

“He’s been issued a flaming sword. Isn’t that odd? You know what one of those will do?”

Zaziel had only heard of the battle of Leviathan, not being a warrior at the front. He knew about flaming swords. They'd made for an excellent barbecue after, great as skewers, in fact, if you liked grilled fish.

“Well, yes, I…” he stammered. His face fell. “But... no. No, She wouldn’t. It’s just a ceremony. She wouldn’t…”

“She will. She was quite insistent. I can’t let my brothers and sisters and others suffer as second best. We’re firstborn. We belong above those below.”

Zaziel couldn’t have cared less if he were hundredth-born. Order didn’t matter. No seraph was more loved than a choir angel. At least, he’d assumed that was how it worked.

“But… She doesn’t love us?”

“You know Michael and Gabriel, they’re fine with it. They don’t think. No imagination. They don’t understand how bad this is. Now I intend to stand up for us. I want you with me. What do you say?”

Zaziel looked down at the garden again. “What will you do?”

Lucifer sighed. His wings fluttered softly and it was strange, so very strange: Every brush of those feathers still whispered hallelujah. “Tomorrow...”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, the humans will be born. They’ll be given one rule. A test.”

“And, if they break it?”

“Exile. They would leave the garden. If they haven’t eaten by then, they’ll be mortal.”

“What’s mortal?”

“They would be capable of dying, like Leviathan. They could be killed, Zaziel.”

“Killed? You didn’t say anything about killing anyone!”

“I didn’t, of course I didn’t.”

“How can you imagine…?

“Imagine what will happen if we don’t show how unworthy they are.”

Zaziel imagined, and kept his eyes on the garden. 

“That’s all I mean. She has so much faith in them. We have to change that, help Her see clearly.”

The two Trees stood right at the top of the garden’s highest hill. Zaziel remembered them. His first meal. The only food any angel would ever need. Now there they were, waiting for humans.

Something else was there, shining at the crux of the rivers. He squinted. It made him think of the light of the Veil for some reason. 

“Will you help me?” the melodious voice broke into his study. He turned quickly back to the archangel.

“I don’t like the thought of making things die,” he said.

“Of course I’m _concerned_ about the humans. So before the ceremony, at evening prayers, I’m going to do it. I’m going to say no. Are you with me?”

“You’re sure it won’t be the death of us?”

Lucifer grinned and patted him on the back. “We’ve already eaten from the Tree of Life, Zaziel,” he said. “Nothing worse can happen to us than being replaced. Nothing.”

* * *

**I** t’s important to remember that a light-bearer is only that: a bearer. Otherwise, what would be the need for the light? Zaziel didn’t understand lies yet. He believed he always would be in love with the light of heaven.

So as the Watchers penned their reports that evening, he paced the wall, now and then looking out at the garden and trying to figure out that strange light. Meanwhile, the Watchers wrote everything from the number of birds eggs in nests to the wet bulb temperature around Atlantis. 

It was reassuring, the susserations of rustling paper and pen, though Zaziel had always himself taken to composing hymns. He hated paperwork. 

He thought again, of the tune he’d been humming by the lake.

_“What is this thing that builds our dreams, yet slips away from us…”_

He stopped at that line, and eyed the Veil. He wanted to go back there, back by the lake, talking about the ducks, about anything really. He’d been happy there. But he suddenly felt forbidden. Unwanted. Shut out.

He couldn’t bring himself to finish the poem.

* * *

**T** he day of the rebellion, the evening prayers began to swell.

Raphael met Zaziel on the way in and grabbed his arm with a shameless grin.

“Sing with us. We need a tune. You were working on one.”

“I already promised Bellaphon. Make your own.”

“Come on, Zaziel.” Raphael tugged his arm playfully. “You did actually write one?”

“Of course, I did.”

“Just making sure.”

He was teasing, Zaziel knew he was, but he felt tense all of a sudden. “I don’t need you to hold my hand, brother.” He stuck out his tongue and shook him off, leaving his brother puzzled as he crossed the courtyard to join the western chorus—just as Lucifer stepped forward. With a question. 

“Do you love the humans more than us?”

The songs went silent. Zaziel didn’t know how long the silence lasted. Time itself missed the beat.

The Metatron stood up from his lesser throne. He was the spokesperson of heaven, and stood just before the Veil and to one side, so as not to seem to take the praises of the L-rd. His role was due to the assumed fact that the Voice of the Almighty, Source of all Creation, couldn’t help but travel to every corner of it. The Metatron then, was the equivalent of a private channel. 

“Why do you ask?”

“Because…” Lucifer twitched his wings and threw out sparks. “Tomorrow the hosts of heaven will kneel to Adam, the son of the Earth, and to Eve, his wife. And they will serve them.”

A whisper of wings and worry spread across the myriads. Lucifer’s eyes had gone dark as coals. Again, sparks spilled between the brushing feathers, hallelujahs twisting to hallelu- _noes_. 

The posse had gathered around him by prior arrangement. Now Zaziel inched forward to its perimeter. He didn’t like this. The silence behind the Veil. Even the music of the spheres had stopped.

Lucifer asked, “How can you ask us to worship anyone but you?”

Metatron scowled. “How can you question orders?”

“Because they’re wrong!”

The spheres clanged and clacked dangerously. The gears of heaven trembled. The Veil fluttered in a gale and fire flickered on its edge.

Zaziel couldn’t say how he knew, but he felt it in his soul. G-d had stood up. The Most High rising was like a giant standing inside a tent. It pulled out the stakes in reality. 

Existence dropped to compensate and Zaziel felt his stomach pitch into his mouth as the ground jerked. 

The archangel Michael drew his sword and it flashed like lightning. 

“I’ve only asked a question!” Lucifer screamed in defiance.

Metatron opened his mouth, but then a Voice did carry to the four corners. It cut into Zaziel like a knife. He felt, rather than heard, the anger, the betrayal, the _disappointment_.

“MY CHILDREN, HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN?”

A blaze of light washed out like a flood. The Veil had opened. Its brilliance made the gleam of Lucifer and his rebel angels a shadow. 

Zaziel gasped. Had he forgotten? He had. Forgotten the Light and so thought the traces of it were the full glory. Something in him ached, but even as he longed, the words “not loved” echoed in his mind. He couldn’t forget them. Did it matter to love if you were unloved? Who had forgotten whom?

Lucifer drew his own sword and so did Hastriel and Dafriel and Bellaphon and the rest. He answered, “You know very well I have not. I remember _everything_.”

Zaziel felt the ground under his feet buck oddly. That couldn’t be good. It bucked again. No. Not good. Very much not good. He looked around. The Watchers and choir were stepping back. 

Zaziel said, “Lu, er, maybe we should talk this out less angrily, just…”

“Too late now, Zaziel. The line has been drawn.”

“What line? What are you talking about?”

“Between our side and theirs.”

“Side? Wh…?”

“Don’t be a coward, Zaziel,” said Bellaphon sharply.

Zaziel, who had pulled Sandalphon from the inferno of an unexpected supernova, turned on them in desperate anger. “I am not a coward!”

And at that moment, Lucifer raised his sword. He puffed on the blade once, and the starry steel turned blacker than night. 

Zaziel said, “You can’t really mean to attack?”

“That’s what I like about you, Zaziel,” said the archangel sweetly. “You ask questions.”

“But we can’t possibly.”

“I think a change in management is in order.”

He charged. Michael did also, and all the forces of heaven joined one side or the other, all but Zaziel, who was knocked off his feet and threw his wings over his head to shield himself. For the next moment his only thoughts were on crawling through the chaos, trying to reach somewhere not torn by the war.

It was ugly. Oh, was it _ugly_. He’d tell anyone who’d ask, but no one ever did and he was glad. It was the first ugliness in all creation, and so more horrid than anything to come after. Even Leviathan’s downfall had been an epic, glorious battle. There was nothing epic about this. Nothing glorious. Nothing good. Wings were shredded. Limbs lost. Bodies dis-corporated. The music of the spheres had turned to screams of hate.

Michael locked blades with Lucifer and their weapons threw lightning into the sky. It struck the spheres and shattered the wheels. All of Heaven trembled. The principalities on the earth stared skyward as the dome boiled in torment. The Watchers ringing the hall threw down pen and scroll to hide under the Cherubims’ wings. 

Zaziel had no one’s wings to hide under but his own. He curled on the ground by the tattered Veil like a fallen dove, inadvertently tripping Gabriel, who had dived into the fray with eyes shining like violet fire. This couldn’t be happening, Zaziel thought. This wasn’t happening. This hadn’t been what Lucifer said. Make changes maybe. Show reason. Say no.

And there was something worse, so much worse. The Veil had been thrown down, but the thunder was gathering. Dark clouds, crackling with lightning, rose in pillars and blocked out the Throne and all its light. They were angry clouds, clouds that might hurt you if you looked at them the wrong way. They were a new curtain, not a silken private screen but a solid barrier, a wall.

The final fight of Michael and Lucifer was in the shadow of that wall. Michael’s hair, so neatly nested most days under his halo, had burst free of its crown and angrily streamed like dark red fire. Sapphire lightning flickered on the archangel’s blade. With a shout of a holy name, he leapt, flew, bore down on Lucifer with a swing that caught the angry lightning and set it loose.

The sword of starless night shattered from its hilts. Its shards fell into the ether and shot through the hearts of stars and killed them.

Lucifer’s starry crown lay in pieces on the golden tiles. The battle froze. The hilt of the broken sword was still raised in Lucifer’s hand, but he, too, was on the ground, a flickering, fading light, gasping in exhaustion and rage.

Michael lowered the point of his sword to his brother’s throat, and smiled. “None can stand against the will of Heaven, not even you, brother.”

The bruised Morning Star sneered. “I’ll never worship what is beneath me.”

“No,” Michael agreed haughtily, “but not much will be.”

And then he stabbed the sword downwards and the gold flagstones screamed, then melted, as the sky _broke_.

Zaziel felt the ground sink. He realized the floor was falling away, breaking to pieces. An island of rebels opened their wings to catch themselves, but again Michael raised the sword and lightning struck, searing their wings with fire. Zaziel cried out in pain, clutched for some handhold. He looked down—he shouldn’t have looked down—a great well of primordial darkness gaped beneath them. He clutched again at the tiles, frantic. Gold scales of glory flaked off in his hand and fell away. He had nothing to cling to.

Just like that, his world ended. Just like that, they were all falling, falling...

Fallen.

* * *

**H** ell has nine levels. So says Dante Alighieri, the first ever writer of self-insertion fanfiction to have what one might call followers. But to every fiction there is a grain of truth. Hell does have levels. There is ice so cold it burns, tar so hot it disintegrates. There are torture chambers for mortal and demon alike. There are sulfur baths and polluted, stinking fields where nothing but poison grows. 

But Hell _was_ flat. Ten million angels falling faster than the speed of light, crashing down into the Underworld’s darkness, changed all that. They left a crater steaming with the evil of their trespasses. Fire and tar and brimstone swamped in and dragged them under.

They were somewhere in southern Russia. The earth was so wounded by their fall that for centuries to come all evil would swirl down to this place like bad water down a drain. The fires that warmed the earth bubbled up to boil pits of tar and turn water to steam. Fire flickered across the tar. Everything _burned_.

Zaziel’s skin screamed. His eyes melted. The heat clung and clung no matter how he tried to wipe it off him. It set fire to his shredded wings. Instinctively, he cried out for help. 

“G-d? Lucifer? Raphael? _Someone!_ ” Sandalphon, how could he leave him here? He’d saved him from the heart of a star. “Someone...”

But no one answered. Just ten million other screams. Zaziel was drowning in an ocean of agony. Charring, melting, crisping—he could feel his bones burn. But he was immortal. He could not _die_.

“Damnit!” he cried as he flailed, topside again, because working vocal words were optional for ethereals. He snarled as soon as he had air. The sky was a black hole, missing so many— _too_ many—stars. “Damn me! Why?! G-d, why?!”

Around him, the other Fallen screamed in torment, cursing, begging, clawing at the sky as he had. He was just a speck in a sea of pain. This wasn’t fair. He hadn’t meant to fall. He’d only asked questions. Had anyone asked Lucifer questions? Anyone at all? 

In the darkest pit on a star-killed night, pride lit a flame.

Of course not. Of course they hadn’t. They were not like him. He was _not_ like them. He would not stand for this. He didn’t _have_ to.

It is well known that working with explosives like dynamite, nitroglycerin, and supernovas comes with a risk. It is also well known that reducing paperwork will motivate any compromise. [Author's Note: That’s why there’s an entire branch of modern Hell devoted to increasing it.]

Unlike many angels above or below, Zaziel had been wounded before. After the first supernova, the archangel Raphael, heaven’s physician, had taken Zaziel’s advice and taken measures to prevent future injuries with very strong words to the Prince of Angels. With some effort, angels could change their shape. It was a tool, a game. Now it had to be something more. 

_Change! Use your imagination. Something that can take the heat._ _No mortal could endure this fall, but why shouldn’t you? You need skin made of iron, of fire itself, of…_

_Scales._

He had then a memory of Leviathan: armored chaos, nigh unstoppable, but, no, he’d never let himself go like that, all belly and too many fins. Something smaller, sleeker. Scales, yes, and coils also. A serpent. Clever things, serpents. Lovely eyes. They could move anywhere. Even here. 

So Zaziel changed his burning body for a cold-blooded tube. The heat became a bath. The fire a tickle. Head held high despite those sinking around him, he swam for the nearest land.

He threw himself up on the banks and changed back to the skin he knew. It was no longer burning off, because he didn’t want it to be. His wings were still torn. They’d take longer, never polish in heaven’s light again either, but they’d grow. Zaziel crawled, hand over hand, away from the licking waves of tar and fire. 

He sprawled out at last, exhausted, trying to catch his breath. Not that he needed to breathe, but it was a reflex, cathartic. 

Something was wrong. Everything, yes, but besides that, something still… He lay unmoving in exhaustion, waiting for it to come to him. Another wound? Maybe. Something had been ripped out of him. Something was missing from _him_. Then he realized. He’d never thought of it as something he’d had. It had always been something he’d _been_. 

His name.

“Oh L…” The blessing died on his lips. The shock was a new wound. Not-Zaziel cried tears in Hell. He remembered his flippant statements at the holy water cooler, about “‘els’ and ‘phons’ and ‘ales.’” This wound wouldn’t heal. No wonder G-d had named the favored ones Adam and Eve. No wonder. Why would you let your favorite risk this kind of pain?

But then a light descended.

He watched in disbelief as Lucifer landed on the pillar of stone. The screaming didn’t phase him. He stared up at the nine levels of Hell in defiance, his broken sword still in hand. That light of his was a mockery of heaven’s pure light, but in this place, it shone like a star. Once again taking on the shape of a serpent, Not-Zaziel slithered forward. Lucifer bent to study him, and smiled.

“Very good, very clever,” he said softly. “Crawling all over the place. It suits you.”

Slowly, painfully, the other writhing figures in the dark strained towards them, screaming for aid, reached seared limbs for help, but Lucifer didn’t look at them. Instead, he patted the snake on the head.

“I’m sorry, but I’m glad you’re with us, crawly,” he said. “You were wasted up there.”

Standing again, Lucifer addressed the screams. His voice carried like thunder: 

“Brethren and Sistren and Othren!” said the Fallen One boldly. “You do well to cast off the shackles of heaven’s semblance. I shall do the same. Let us change!”

And with that, he summoned fire from the wells around them and wrapped himself in it, and when he stepped out of the flame, he wore a crown of horns like a ram’s. He was naked as a goat and his skin was seared red and thick as hide. His feet were hooved and the broken sword fashioned itself into a beckoning torch.

“Come to me, my fallen angels!”

And they came. Screaming and moaning in agony, yet they came. They pulled themselves from the fire and the tar pits. And they changed. They threw off their wings and their broken halos and they took on the forms of their hatred: There was little to no imagination. Some turned to tar and boulders and whatever around them had made them bleed. The rest grew claws and talons and teeth of hunters, the cold blood of lizards and the heartless torsos of insects. It was the second ugliness of the world. Though it held no torch to the ugliness of angel fighting angel in heaven, it was horrible just the same.

“We are now at war with creation,” the newborn devil said to his legions. “Our mission has not changed. We will show Heaven their flaws.”

“How?” shouted a rough voice. It belonged to the one who had been Hastriel. He had clad himself in waste and rotting flesh.

“You princes of heaven are now my dukes. Your legions are my swarms. And I am your king, the Lord of Darkness, Ruler of the Bottomless Pit. The earth will be ours. At every turn, we will prepare to meet this infestation with our own.”

He looked down at the one who had once been Zaziel, who hadn’t changed from anything, still a polished black snake. He had his pride, Not-Zaziel thought. It had kept him alive. He wasn’t going to debase himself further.

But the ex-archangel smiled. “Very good.” He laughed. “Disguises will aid us. Fear not, I will rename you all. You are my children now. I won’t reject you. We are demons: ‘dwellers’ of this pit. We will draw all humankind down with us if we must, and prove ourselves still their betters!”

According to the poet John Milton, at this point the fallen angels formed an orderly council with which to plot the doom of mankind. Milton was right that it happened, but he didn’t understand grief. Orderly councils make memos, hold training seminars, and do marketing research. That would have to come later.

Tonight, there was only anger and pain and hurt. The bold words of the fallen archangel lit a desire in those tar pits hotter than the flames, a desire to spurn the Heaven that had spurned a third of its children. That rage turned the screams of Hell into cries for vengeance.

The angel once called Zaziel felt the will of the words bear down on him. A smothering darkness had replaced the lulling light of before. He couldn’t fight it. There was no love in his heart to fight it. They were fallen. Rejected. And all for humans. All for asking questions. He took on his corporeal form again, to have lungs and a voice to cheer with the rest of the legions, and he screamed until he was hoarse and blind for tears.

* * *

“ **C** rawly.”

It was near dawn on the Seventh Day. No-longer-Zaziel woke curled on a slab of brimstone. It was really quite comfortable, the warmth, once you got used to the smell. Could do with some plants though. That might clean the air up. 

“Crawly, a word?”

For an instant, he wondered who that devil was talking too, then he realized it was him. No new name would never sing in him like the old. The old one had been given by G-d Herself.

The one who had sworn to be called Lord of Darkness, Destroyer of Kings, and Prince of the Air was staring down at Crawly. He didn’t seem to have slept. He still carried the torch. On the island was now set up an obsidian throne. 

“We still have to do something about those humans.”

Now Crawly understood the look in his eyes from before. Not anger. Not something like even. It was hatred. It would kill G-d before it would worship Her again. It would certainly not hesitate to kill anything less.

So Crawly was very careful with his answer.

“Yes, someone should, of course.”

“I’d like you to go up there and make some trouble.”

Crawly was aware they were being watched. Dark and pale eyes alike stared at him from around the nine rings of Hell. He hadn’t realized he was in the middle of something so important.

“How?” he asked.

“Use your imagination.”

* * *

**B** ehind the Veil of Light and Darkness, the Almighty sets Her plan in motion. In the pits of fire and shadow, the firstborn angel connives to undo every bit of it. 

But it’s the Seventh Day now, and everything is good. Time for rest. The angels in their mended spheres sleep. Even Michael has put up his sword. On the other side of the new Veil, the Almighty rests outside of Time, watching eternity, of which She is not a part. She is something both beyond and between. To try to explain further would be impossible. It is ineffable.

And lonely.

Still, She can see the end, and declares the Creation of the World complete—for now. And good—eventually. Time starts to move again. The crystal lake laps gently at the shore outside the Veil.

It could use some ducks in, She thinks, and eyes a sleeping Metatron. 

To be clear, G-d doesn’t lie. But since She does play a very complicated game of poker in a dark room with blank cards, or something to that effect, She does let others assume things.

For example, only a few know that G-d can whisper.

* * *

_“ **A** ziraphale?”_

The angel looked up from a fascinating book on squirrels. He blinked. His nose twitched. Then he sneezed.

He’d been hiding in the library since the rebellion and any library worth its card catalogue smells a bit dusty. It’s how you know it’s doing its job. Aziraphale had been hiding, not that he couldn’t hold his own in the fight, but because he didn’t want to hold a grudge. It seemed awfully nasty to, and he’d rather hoped it would all work out without him. After all, he hadn’t even met those nice two people in the garden yet.

“Um, yes, L-rd?”

_“Go down and guard the Eastern Gate of Eden.”_

“Um, yes, of course. I’d be delighted. Er, from what, my Lord?”

_“And don’t forget the sword I gave you.”_

Aziraphale had been about to walk out of heaven’s library. He doubled back and picked up the sword and scabbard lying on an armchair. He thought about drawing it out to test the edge, for the look of the thing, but then decided against it. Heavenly parchment and heavenly fire did essentially what parchment and fire did anywhere (or would in the future), and he was a very careful angel.

“Happy to be of service. Um, what should I do if I, er, if I see a demon?”

There was no answer, so Aziraphale tied the sword to his belt and flew down to the planet. The sun was just peaking over the horizon and the apples on the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil had never been redder. Or riper. Or more tempting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *A ongoing translation of this work is available in Brazilian Portuguese at WattPad, thanks to JessRLirio.  
> **Speaking of translations, for anyone wondering, "Zaziel" started as a play on "Raziel," from the apocryphal _Book of Raziel_ , that is, the angel who supposedly educated Adam. The more research I did, the more I got curious enough to see if I'd accidentally written anything in Hebrew. So I cracked open Wiktionary and Abarim Publications, and at a stretch I got these fun results:
>
>> **זזיאל**  
>  Readings: זָזִיאֵל _or_ זָזִיאֶל  
> (זז) : záz (verb, ergative) to move _or_ to roam  
> (י) : í (possessive suffix, masc. _or_ plural)  
> (אל) : el (noun: אֵל) god, power; _or_ (preposition: אֶל) towards
> 
>   
> Some browsers might just show question marks or boxes instead of Hebrew letters.  
> Granted, it's been years since my last Hebrew class, but loosely, this _could_ mean  
> 
>
>> (a) My moves are G-d's; iow, determinism.  
> (b) My moves are power; iow, freewill.  
> 
> 
> Either way, Crowley's a mover and a shaker. 


	2. Chapter the Second - Three Years After Armageddon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We’re sure about this, your disgrace?” asked Hastur. “I mean, they’re angels.”_

**I** n recent years, butterflies have been looked down upon for inciting chaos. This is an unfair accusation. Even demons think so, because they hate sharing a spotlight. 

When Edward Lorenz first proposed the butterfly effect, he wanted to call it “the Seagull Effect.” However, the name was already taken by the formula E = (1/ _mc_ )^2, where E equals any food’s edibility given _m_ , the munchies and _c_ , it’s proximity in centimeters to seagulls. 

Had laypersons misinterpreting Lorenz’s theory hunted seagulls rather than butterflies, the world would invariably have been a better place. 

The truth is, butterflies are equally subject to chaos. There are no lepidopteran secret societies trying to control the weather. There is no occult order of butterflies or moths worshiping the Lord of the Flies. And there was only one new age movement in the past five decades, which believed in flower power. 

Not to say there aren’t Satanic insects, of course. Mosquitoes, to name a few million. And flies, to name the rest.

* * *

 **T** he Dukes of Hell were, occultically speaking, on the same footing and power as the Prince of Hell, but the prince is someone special and has special recognition as a result. This one had had several names and roles throughout history, most involving life-sized replicas sculpted from fine wood or precious metals. Perhaps you’ve heard of them. The theists use their name more often than that of the respective Almighties and, as usual, call them a _he_. [Author’s note: These are the same “authorities” who claim that witches work naked.] More than any other, the prince’s name glows with the allure of the forbidden.

_Beelzebub: the Lord of the Flies._

Slightly less-known is their secretary, Dagon, Lord of the _Files_.

Dagon was picking at a scale and turning over leaves in a foreboding looking folder—for the look of the thing. In actuality, he was watching the master at work, basking, as it were, in the glow.

Beelzebub sat at their desk in a spartan office, staring over steepled fingertips. The stare was designed to strip the nerves, even of beings who had none.

“And how did this… accident… occur?” Beelzebub asked.

A disembodied spirit stood just beyond the desk. “It was worth the ride, I’d say so, eh, sah?”

“Thrilled to hear it.” Beelzebub leaned forward but kept the steeple of power strong. “And this ride is called... what again?”

“BASE Jumping, sah. Thrilling. Humans, trying to fly.”

“Not, it would appear, succeeding.”

“Well, I brought her in, di’n’ I, sah? It’s getting difficult up there. People are too distracted to be tempted by the usual.”

“What usual, do tell?”

“Oh, you know, sah: wrath, lust and what have you... Get in trouble for those things—from each other, would you believe it? I think it’s the Internet.”

“We’ll blame Crowley then. He said that was his idea,” said Beelzebub. [Author’s note: Actually it wasn’t, but much like certain humans, he likes everyone to think so.]

Unlike most demons, Beelzebub viewed torture from a very Twentieth-Century mindset. So they let the silence stretch like a prisoner on a rack, then opened one beckoning hand towards Dagon. With a satisfied smile, Dagon dutifully shut the folder and slapped it into the hand. The slap was necessary. The sound emphasized the weight.

Beelzebub said, “I don’t need excuses, just your signature on these…” 

They slid the folder of singed parchments towards the specter. The file was approximately two fingers thick. Files in Hell were measured in fingers, much like its torture sessions.

The floating specter’s memory of eyes bulged. “All that, eh?” 

“This is the initial application and damage report.” Beelzebub’s cloud of flies hummed merrily, though their titular lord kept a straight face. Gloating was for private time. “For starters.”

Slowly, they opened a drawer custom made for suspenseful reveals (it scraped dramatically with a sound like a coffin sliding open). They pulled out a _second_ file. Two more fingers thick. They laid this beside the first one and turned it open to reveal columns of very small type hung heavily over lengthy footnotes.

“You will also need Form 126A from accounting for the deduction from your wages,” the prince went on. “And Form 126B in triplicate for security, fumigation, and activation of the new vessel. The latter will require notarized copies of your Sulfur Security card, Cursed Certificate, and valid Tempter’s license; so that we might arrange a temporary Possession during processing; said processing should take between two and four weeks, but may take as long as six months, depending on Bank Holidays.” [Author’s note: Although they would have humans think otherwise, demons own most banks and finance, except Bitcoin, which they wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot hydra.] They added, “The cost of the rental will also come out of your wages, but you can file for clemency at the Tormentor’s office if makes you feel better.”

“I’ll keep the wages then, sah?”

“No, but you’ll feel better.”

The discorporated demon sank halfway into the floor and muttered something about cold comforts. “I don’t suppose you know where I might find a pen.”

The fingers were re-steepled. “Not. My. Problem. Do keep all this in mind, in case you think to take part in such BASE activities again.”

“Yes, my lord prince.”

“Now get out—I said ‘now,’ didn’t I?”

The apparition, struggling to carry the paperwork through sheer concentration, left. Beelzebub glared at the door until it slammed in fear, then they leaned back on their throne. The Lord of the Flies never intended to read any of the paperwork. That was part of what made it so satisfying.

Even so, their flies buzzed irritably. 

“That went terribly, sir,” said Dagon proudly, trying to cheer them.

“Be sure to find a spelling error next he comes to turn them in,” Beelzebub said. “We’ve a policy that all documents must be resubmitted in such cases.”

Dagon beamed so bright his scales glowed. _Genius_.

Beelzebub didn’t smile. They were feeling disappointed. It was only entertaining tormenting your own for so long. It had been ages since any good torture had been done topside, three years at least. Hell had, as it were, entered into a lull. There’d been no plans for after the Apocalypse, aside from the celebratory feast. [Author’s note: Canceling the caterer had been murder; so at least there’d been that.] The point was, there’d been an end in sight. But thanks to a certain couple’s meddling and the unforeseeable side effects of absentee fatherism, the Antichrist had backed out, and Armageddon had turned into Armaged- _didn’t_. Who’d have thought an eleven-year-old wouldn’t want to end the world?

Beelzebub stood and eyed the wall of clocks at the back of the office. There are twenty-four time zones in the world. This wall held twenty-five clocks: The local time, at the very top, always read TOO LATE. [Editor’s note: _G.O._ , Ch. 1: footnotes.]

Dagon sidled over. “Shall I join you, topside, sir?”

“We’ve something to pick up first,” said Beelzebub, and they left together, Dagon still beaming. His scales glittered when he was in a good mood. Anyone looking on would have thought of a comet’s tail hanging on a lead stone. 

The clock over London ticked one minute past the hour of seven a.m.

* * *

 **I** t was thirty minutes past seven when the garden appeared, because angels like to arrive early.

The Garden of Eden has had several homes over the course of human and angelic history, and only one home in the time before that. It is measured in cubits, but for simplicity’s sake let’s just say it’s big, big enough that generations of humans could have lived there quite comfortably, had it not been for an unfortunate choice in signage and admirable couple solidarity.

For the last four hundred years before that moment, Eden had been up in the fifth heaven, serving as a kind of recreation area for angels on their days off. (The offending Tree now has a picket fence and a placard.) 

Today, however, Eden was hovering in the ethereal space above St. James park. 

Its presence caused a great commotion among the ducks, who were the only ones capable of seeing it, not for any preternatural reason, but because most park-goers don’t look up. Ignorance is a kind of camouflage [Author’s note: which is why dictatorships and freedom fighters alike aren’t fans of education].

There were more ducks than people in the park most mornings. Human regard for posted signs has not improved since their forebears, so some people were feeding the ducks, tossing breadcrumbs and crackers into the water. A particularly zealous child attempted to share all of a frankfurter and bun with a goose. An elderly woman with a bag of crusts watched smiling from one of the many benches along the edge of the pond.

Certain adults in long, plain jackets and shifty expressions show up at St. James on a regular basis to toss a few crackers in with less zeal and attempt looking “casual.” Meanwhile they exchange matching briefcases or overstuffed manila envelopes tied with string. Some used clever handshakes, mock collisions, and opportune benches so regularly that some of the children had come to think it was a strange adult game and imitated them with leaves and sticks and pebbles.

Just after the garden appeared, so did two newcomers. They hadn’t used the entrance. They did glance up at Eden, the way certain people look back at a taxi to keep their trailing coat from the door. 

“How do you know _they_ won’t be here?” the shorter one asked.

“It’s not elevenses yet,” said the other, with great confidence. He seemed to have a thought. “You do mean _they_ as in those two traitorous ne’er-do-wells, or do you mean _they_ as in our friends the demons?”

“The first one,” said the other, after sorting this out. (He was very good at sorting things out.). “Sorry, I was trying to be oblique.”

“Pardon?”

“I was trying to speak in a roundabout way.”

“Well, that’s alright then. You succeeded.” 

The shorter speaker smiled amicably. He was Sandalphon, angel of the West and ex-Watcher. “Ex,” because no small amount of department shifting had resulted from the Fall. Losing a third of your workforce means a lot of paperwork and even more retraining seminars. Sandalphon had opted for the post of _Archangel of a Cardinal Direction_ , because at the time he had thought sunsets were very nice and, if he had to be honest, he’d thought Uriel liked him.

For the last two of the world’s six thousand years, stress had led Sandalphon to unconsciously take on the form of a balding, middle-aged man fraught with concern. He’d left off observing humans after the department shift, but he liked to talk about them, much as some people do about foreigners after a trip to a foreign country. He had kept it up for six thousand years, and it was very helpful to other angels. He was generally likeable.

The other man, upon first glance, was too. The archangel Gabriel was everything a modern artist might think of in an archangel [Author’s note: especially if he’s one of those artists who likes to project his own exaggerated ideas of manliness onto the ethereal]. Gabriel was tall, clean-shaven, and broad-shouldered. He could run ten miles without breaking a sweat, mostly because _his_ cardinal direction was North. He also had eyes like amethysts, which clouded when he was angry. It was the kind of special effect that only the most impressive of heavenly hosts could afford were this a cinematic production and not a foray into fanfiction. 

Sandalphon asked with genuine curiosity, “‘Why are elevenses important?”

“Well,” said Gabriel patiently, “not only does it prevent low blood sugar in British humans, but _they’ve_ been living here for centuries—the traitors, that is, not the… Anyway, _they_ have their routine. They meet here before going for lunch on weekends.”

“Diabolical.”

“Except on holidays. Er, today isn’t a holiday, is it?”

“Only in America,” said Sandalphon helpfully. “Taxes.”

“What funny people,” Gabriel said. He resumed his confident airs. “No, this is _our_ time for clandestine meetings. We just need to wait for Michael and Uriel to show up with the—”

A third voice interrupted with “Package?”

Gabriel spun round with a sheepish grin. It turned his chiseled features briefly to puddy. Behind them stood Michael and Uriel. 

Sandalphon made a small show of applause. “Very oblique,” he said. 

Michael and Uriel were the compass opposites of the two men, and each was smiling. Uriel, being archangel to the Sun always let her grin singe a little. Michael had taken the south because he was the only left-handed angel among them and privately liked a good joke. Today he had done something with his hair and was also wearing pearls, because he could.

When the opening for Prince of the Angels had been announced, Michael had been the first and only angel in line. Smiting your predecessor made all competition wary. While Gabriel led the tactical and offensive legions, it was Michael who kept everything flowing smoothly between departments—often by politely smiling in such a way that reminded people what happened if the smile stopped.

Now Michael held up a package wrapped in a linen-like cloth. The cloth seemed to glow. At least, it was supposed to only _seem_ that way: The only certain thing about it was it looked an ordinary square package with a knot at the top, a picnic perhaps, or a small gift for a friend. It swung a little, harmlessly. Gabriel and Sandalphon stepped backward.

“Is that… _it_?” Gabriel asked.

Sandalphon was fascinated. “The thing we don’t say the word of?”

“Yes, Sandalphon, fresh from Eden,” said Uriel with a perfunctory smile. It made the flecks of gold on her cheeks sparkle. 

Sandalphon, feeling suddenly underdressed, adjusted his little winged tie-clip. He’d never quite managed a sparkle, but for his toenails.

“Are you all excited?” asked Gabriel cheerfully. “Because I’m excited.”

Michael said, “If we’re all here, shall we be getting into position?”

Sandalphon happily pulled a newspaper from under his arm. It hadn’t been there before, but no onlooker would have admitted that. Humans are very protective of their realities. The onlookers would not have looked any closer for this reason, and so missed that the title of this paper wasn’t local.

Sandalphon crossed the green to an inviting-looking bench.

Gabriel looked left, then right, and then changed clothes. Not normally, or even awkwardly behind a bush, but with a snap of his fingers. He now wore a sweatshirt and -pants and a pair of trainers. His sword became a fit-bit. Gabriel was good at clothes, so all of these were the most comfortable in the world. 

He drew a deep breath of fresh morning air and set off at a jog, just another morning runner, albeit one who never sweat nor took a break.

Uriel and Michael exchanged a nod and turned their swords into parasols. If there were still any onlookers such would, of course, have dismissed the swords as having been parasols all along. Then maybe those same onlookers would have gone looking for a coffee to clear their heads. 

Uriel set out around the perimeter at a stroll in an easterly direction. Michael took part of the walk with her, then turned towards the cafe which, for reasons even the manager couldn’t explain, had decided to open an hour early.

Michael sat down on the upper terrace, checked his nails, and waited. 

The garden in the sky shimmered away into the fifth dimension. 

The ducks were very excited by now, but since no humans in the park spoke Pintail and only a few knew Mandarin, only the old woman with the bread crusts worried at their excitement. 

* * *

**T** en minutes before eight a.m., a sleek black Bentley pulled up in front of a corner bookshop in Soho. Its driver gave the curb’s yellow no-parking lines a stern look through very dark sunglasses, and the lines curled back obediently. 

The bookshop was called _A.Z. Fell & Co.’s Antiquaries and Unusual Books_. Hours were posted dutifully on the front door, written in a precise hand as follows: 

> _I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10 am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30 pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays)._
> 
> –A.Z. Fell, Bookseller

No one ever inquired who the “& Co” was referring to. The truth was it varied every few decades and currently referred to nobody.

This century, the driver in dark glasses with strange powers over traffic regulations went by the name of Anthony J. Crowley. He was at first glance a slim, handsome man with sharp cheekbones and what most people assumed were snakeskin boots. He walked upright like a human, but there was something in the swing of his hips that brought to mind a whole other animal.

Crowley liked the city in the early morning. Its population consisted almost entirely of people who had proper jobs to do and real reasons for being there, as opposed to the unnecessary millions who trailed in after 8 am, and the streets were more or less quiet [Editor’s note: see ibid., Ch.3, _Wednesday_ ]. 

He left a covered basket on the back seat of the Bentley. Peeking out from one corner of its woven lid was a red and white checkered cloth to declare its purpose. One snap of Crowley’s fingers locked the Bentley’s doors. The second opened the bookshop’s gate long enough for him to stride through. The little bell over the lintel rang merrily. The door shut and its sign swung. The bolt locked. 

He called, “Angel, this picnic won’t eat itself!”

But he needn’t have shouted. “Mr. Fell” was already in the shop.

Aziraphale was staring at a shelf of Nineteenth Century novels. This wasn’t unusual. It was one of his favorite shelves (though he’d never hurt the other books’ feelings by saying so out loud). But this morning, he was staring as if looking through them at something approaching from a distance. Something more horrible as every detail grew clearer.

“No, no, this can’t be good,” he said to himself.

To the casual observer, “A.Z. Fell” was a gentleman of undeterminable age with pale curls that brought halos to mind. An older observer might also remark how much he resembled his father, who’d also run the bookshop and also been named Aziraphale. This father had also been said to resemble his grandfather. You get the idea. Crowley heard the same said of his father in arts dealing. Heard said, and never contested. 

Most people fell short of saying Aziraphale looked like an angel. Their sensibilities stopped them, as any stock footage of principalities didn’t involve a pot belly or tartan socks.

Crowley crossed the shop in jaunty strides. “Angel, what is it?”

Aziraphale’s voice was a thin quaver speaking to no one: “It can’t be… gone?”

“What’s gone?” Crowley asked. He touched his friend’s shoulder and the other started and turned, blinking at him. The next instant, Aziraphale’s tight expression unraveled into a smile.

“Crowley,” he said breathily. “Thank Heaven your here.”

“Thank Someone anyway,” said Crowley and split a grin. “You look more than the usual peckish, and I have just the thing.”

“Something’s _happened_ ,” said Aziraphale, his face falling again. “It’s about my old post.”

“You’re still tuned in to the Eastern Gate?”

“Yes. Can we talk somewhere _not_ here?”

Now Crowley had trouble keeping up his own smile. Usually _here_ was the only place they could talk, about certain things anyway. There were so few places in the world that were… safe. 

Aloud he said, “That was the plan today, though I’d hoped we’d be talking about something else…”

“Somewhere with a bit of sky,” said Aziraphale absently.

“Anywhere you want to go.”

Crowley led Aziraphale out with chivalrously opened doors to the Bentley. Soon they were doing ninety miles an hour southeast through Central London, which is impossible to do safely.

For humans anyway. 

* * *

**T** here are some things in the world that are so unsafe, blame is not the most important thing about them. The plastic in the ocean, for example, might be someone’s fault more than others’, but it’s everyone’s problem. Global warming may be caused by fatalists, but it’s everyone’s problem. Vaccines, the lack of them especially, is also a shared problem. 

One of the oldest of everyone’s problems is the Ring of Fire in the Pacific Ocean, and in more ways than most in living memory (even immortals) know.

Everyone knows that the Ring of Fire causes earthquakes and volcanoes. What not everyone knows is what it prevents. One clue to this lies in the fact that the shape of the Ring is not actually a _ring_. It’s a horseshoe.

Horseshoes have been hung on a nail over the doorways of particularly savvy people for centuries. The iron protects these homes from intruders, assuming these intruders are (a) supernatural and (b) polite enough to use the door.

There are few intruders who would need a door as big as the Pacific Ocean to enter the Earth’s atmosphere. One of them lives on the far side of existence. Angels do not think about her much, and attribute the disastrous rumblings of her knocking to demons getting up to no good as usual. They’re far too pleased with the last great battle in Heaven to remember the one that had happened _before_ all that.

Like any proper horseshoe, the Ring is affixed by a nail. That nail is the Torch of Prometheus, although this poetic name, much like “the Philosopher’s Stone” is a replacement for a much older word no mortal has heard of. 

It’s not much to look at, but most practical things aren’t. A simple hollow cone stuck like a spike in a pillar of stone. It stands alone in a chamber on the far side of Hell, and the fires of the Underworld flow around it in slow, sluggish rivers, drinking in is infernal energies and becoming hellfire, a substance that even angels fear to touch. Imagine the way phosphorous burns in water, and how mercury leeches down to the bones. Hellfire is much, much worse.

No demon dared ask Lucifer to remind them where he had gotten the Torch. But given his history with the sacrosanct, there were stories. 

Beelzebub and Dagon were joined by the duke Hastur as they strode down a corridor of igneous rock. The labyrinths of Hell had extended greatly since the first days in the pit, out of necessity, but this wing was always kept sparse. There were no cesspools of filth here, no chambers of torment. The walls gleamed cleanly with dancing flame. 

The three demons walked in a way that suggested there should have been four of them.

Hastur looked like a sun-bleached scarecrow dragged through sewage. He had black eyes like a doll’s and a sporadic laugh usually accompanied by acts of violence. He was sallow and sullen today, because he was thinking of his friend Ligur.

Duke Ligur had once been a very accomplished demon: An expert tormentor, a breeder of hellhounds, and one outstanding in the field of lurking. Then there’d been a treacherous incident involving holy water, a rogue demon, and a plant mister.

The corridor opened up into the round chamber where the Torch’s strange fire was the sole illumination; the demons stopped to take it in.

The room was taller than it was wide, a perfectly round chamber ringed by the rivers of lava that split at the pillar of the Torch. A stone relief above it depicted the beastly form of the devil himself, complete with horns and hooves and the less polite bits in between. The demons bowed towards it in perfunctory deference.

“We’re sure about this, your disgrace?” asked Hastur. “I mean, they’re angels.”

“I have our King’s go ahead for it,” Beelzebub explained. 

“But what’ll we do without hellfire? It’s the best torture we’ve got,” Hastur said. “Can’t kill angels without it. They’ll be running all over the place. And I like how it makes humans plead for death when they’re already dead.” He cast a dark eye at the relief.

Beelzebub took measured strides towards the pillar and glanced once up at the carved face of their master. They were nervous. Yes, the evil one was all on board with working with the angels, so long as ultimately they were working against the Almighty, but his infernal Gracelessness had never so much as uttered a word about reconciliation, not before the Apoca- _lapse_. 

“Are there any protests to wiping out the human race?” asked Beelzebub, suddenly wondering if this was, well, not _right_ , per se, but the _correct_ wrong thing to do.

There were no objections, although Hastur had never had a mother who'd told him what his face would stick like, and so was scowling horribly.

Very carefully, not for any danger but rather in respect, Beelzebub cupped both hands around the cone of the Torch and lifted it upwards. There was a stony, scraping sound like a thousand booby traps coming unpinned. If this had been an action-adventure movie, now would have been the time for the spikes to drop and oversized boulders to roll down the hall.

But such movies don’t tend to feature demons. The ground shook once. A bit of gravel fell aesthetically from the darkened ceiling. That was all. 

Beelzebub carried the Torch from the pillar. Dagon produced from nowhere what appeared to be a plain black paper shopping bag. They all hesitated, gazing in awe at the little golden leaf of flame flickering inside the cone. It seemed like such a small thing, but there was a depth to the darkness within the Torch. It seemed to stretch into eternity, something they all vaguely remembered. 

“Er,” said Hastur, “how do we get it Up There?”

“Very carefully,” said Beelzebub. 

* * *

“ **W** atch out for that—”

Crowley swerved expertly.

“—cab.” 

At the moment, Crowley had no _reason_ to drive like the hounds of hell were at his heels, but he enjoyed it. Cafes, offices, and pedestrians blew by on either side of the Bentley, mere elongated splashes of color, some of them cursing. 

“Mind that—”

A bicycle bell was slurred by the Doppler effect. 

“—cyclist. The speed limit sign says _fifty-five_.”

“I know, angel.”

Aziraphale wasn’t really worried. Crowley liked to scare people but always rearranged traffic so that no one was hurt. Aziraphale played along and today the game was a distraction he was glad of. 

Not that any amount of knowledge could keep his heart from leaping into his throat.

“Heavens. Are the tires even on the ground?”

“They weren’t for that bit, I’ll be right honest.”

Soon the brick and wood structures gave way to the greenery of parkland.

The Bentley rolled smoothly to a stop on a secluded road near Westminster. There were some inviting trees and a grassy bank near the Thames, so the two immortals laid out a breakfast of jams, bread, and cheese under a poplar, and Crowley poured glasses of wine. The bottle had been purchased out the back door of Covent Garden. [Author’s note: Well, not so much purchased as exchanged for a favor.] Up the river, they could just make out the London Eye.

For a little while, Aziraphale was happily distracted by the wine and the brie, and by the _brötchen_ from just across the channel. The jam had come local (Stratford-Upon-Avon), because it was Shakespeare’s birthday. 

As the time neared eight o’clock, Aziraphale reclined with a book of sonnets while Crowley polished off the wine. The dismay of that morning was nearly forgotten for the picnic and the car ride, and Crowley wasn’t about to bring it up with his friend smiling so. 

“The exhibition all the way from the _Gallerie dell'Accademia_ opens this afternoon,” said Crowley. “But locally, what do you say to box seats at the new Globe?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped happily, turning a page. “What are we thinking then? _Hamlet_?”

“I was thinking _Much Ado About Nothing_.”

“ _As You Like it_?”

“ _Much Ado_ then?”

“You always make that joke.”

“Four hundred years, it never gets old.”

“ _Hamlet_ , for the memories” Aziraphale suggested. 

“As you like it then, we’ll do what you will.”

They were both grinning over the terrible joke when something crackled in the AM frequency. Aziraphale’s smile snapped off. “Not again,” he said.

“What is it? Someone lose the keys to the Eastern Gate?”

“Not that. It’s just… there’s been something on the wire all morning about the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“The what?”

“You know, the…” Aziraphale said a word in angelic that would have left mortal ears ringing. 

“Hold on, my angelic’s rusty,” said Crowley, lounging back against the tree. “That means ‘magical glowy thing,’ right?”

“You _do_ know what it is?”

“Sure, of course—No, not really,” said Crowley, all in one breath, then smiled a devil-may-care grin that he’d invented. 

“It was being kept in _Eden_.”

Crowley’s triumphant grin dropped. Whenever possible, Crowley thought of anything but Eden [Author’s note: even celebrity marriages if he thought it would help]. It was a memory that stood guard against so many others: The first big assignment. His very first commendation. The first commendation in all of _Hell_. He’d gotten pats on the back for it, had for most of the trouble humans got into after that. It had all started there.

“A ‘do not touch’ sign, really?” The question had just sort of slipped out. Adam had nudged Eve ironically in the ribs with his elbow and she’d gotten Crowley to ask another question, then to spill completely. (The sign’s paint hadn’t even had time to dry.) 

The whole thing had gone down like a lead balloon. Crowley had been angry after. Furious. He hadn’t thought he’d any anger left, especially not for someone other than himself. 

But then there’d been Aziraphale, missing a particular flaming sword and fretting about how Eve was expecting and the nights were going to be cold _out there_. Crowley’s anger had vanished. There’d been rain, and a sheltering wing, and some talk about the ineffable.

That was where life _should_ have started, Crowley thought. Everything before that moment was a loss, a life with a name that was gone.

“Crowley? Crowley, are you alright?”

Aziraphale had marked his page and was staring at him.

Crowley pushed his sunglasses up against the bridge of his nose. “What on earth was it in Eden for?” he asked. 

“She put it at the head of the four springs. It’s where holy water comes from.”

“Ah, magic.”

“It was placed there just before Adam and Eve were born. Now it’s gone.”

“Stolen, you mean?”

“No, that’s what’s troubling: With permission.”

“Permission? From whom?”

“Michael, I think. There’s a lot of excitement.”

“You don’t think this has something to do with us?” 

“The Stone is what makes holy water, and holy water is used to banish, well, to extinguish, well, to kill, that is…”

“Demons,” Crowley finished for him.

Aziraphale paled and started to stand. “We should look into it immediately.”

Crowley took his arm and pulled him back down. “Are you conkers?”

“They’re not going to bother us anymore, Crowley.”

“Not if we don’t tempt them.” Crowley tried to smile. “How ‘ould that look: ‘Sorry, blokes, forgot my stapler when I cleared out my desk after the execution. No, no, don’t get up…’ ”

“They’re frightened of us.”

“Fear works best with the gaps, angel. Not that they have much imagination, but fear is what we need to keep them away.”

Aziraphale settled back on the picnic blanket. The dark look had passed from Crowley’s features, but the angel could read through the flippant tones. If he had been saying what was truly on his mind, it would have been something like this:

_“Look, you and I got lucky once. We switched places and there was nothing our own could do to destroy us with holy water and hellfire because they didn’t know any better. If we start acting concerned about something that supposedly has no effect on us anymore, something will click.”_

Aziraphale nodded, both to the spoken and the unspoken. They sat closer together against the tree. Crowley snaked his fingers around Aziraphale’s. The angel kept them manicured. It was one of his little oddities. Crowley was a biter himself, on principle really. 

They let the silence stretch a bit. They were two opposites, but also two of a kind, the only of their sort in the universe.

Like Aziraphale, Crowley could read the unspoken. The angel wasn’t just worried about them. It wasn’t angels and demons who’d suffered the last time Heaven and Hell agreed on something. 

Crowley thought, it would have been nice to think that G-d had been on his and Aziraphale’s side in stopping the whole Amageddon thing. But then you’d get lazy, wouldn’t you? You’d start to think it would all work out, and you’d never try for anything. Freedom of choice needed that niggling uncertain worm of doubt, or you might as well be....

Here Crowley always forced his thoughts to stop.

“Does the Philosopher’s Stone do anything else?” he asked. “You know, besides glow and make water kill demons?”

“It wasn’t really my department,” admitted Aziraphale. “It was those little angels with the punch-cards and the switches, up in engineering.”

“That _is_ interesting…”

Aziraphale caught the glint behind the sunglasses. “You wouldn’t want to be near it, Crowley. Even angels have to be careful. It’s…” He glanced sideways and said, a bit pompously, “It’s not of this _or any_ worlds.”

This strictness made Crowley grin all the more. “Lovely.”

“I mean, one of the engineers, he was doing something with the cards and he just sort of went… poof.”

“Poof?”

Aziraphale tumbled on to spite Crowley’s smirk: “Well, I mean he was there but… it was like he hadn’t been. He only knew his name.”

“Like it wiped his mind or something?”

“Not just his mind. _Him_. Total…” Aziraphale fumbled around a new-fangled modern word: “Reset.”

That uncomfortable feeling returned. “It is only my intention to stay away,” Crowley promised.

Aziraphale let the air out of his pomposity and slouched with relief. “Is there anything on your end? I mean, the”—He made a vague gesture—“The FM stations?”

“Fiend Modulation? Some buzz about a meeting, nothing definite. There’re always meetings. But if it’s on the wire then Old Horns is involved, you believe me, I’d know.”

“I do believe you,” said Aziraphale matter-of-factly. Worried flecks of gold glinted in his blue eyes. “Do you suppose he recalls?”

“Hasn’t said. Have some wine,” said Crowley. He refilled the bottle with a thought and effectively sobered himself. It was clear Aziraphale needed it more than he did. [Author’s Note: No angel or demon will waste perfectly good wine, which is why they recycle.] He added, “And repeat after me: This is not our problem.”

* * *

 **I** t was turning out to be a bright and sunny day, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be problems. None would be in Soho, or even Central London. Not yet, in any case. But workers of iniquity can’t go around waiting on the right weather to make their move. Nothing would get done.

The time was nine-fifteen when Michael checked his hair in a mirror. 

The mirror told Michael not a hair was out of place, but also that three nearby churches contained holy water, fourteen souls were in danger of losing faith (half of them in Parliament), and three fiends had arrived at the park who had also not used the main entrance.

The souls would have been a cause for concern three years prior, but, what with the world not ending, who could say what mattered anymore?

Michael slid the mirror into his purse. From his vantage point, he saw one demon take up a post at the door of the cafe, wearing an apron. The demon started handing out coffee samples. That the tray refilled itself and the cups and coffee weren’t from the cafe didn’t occur to the guests, because that would have been impossible.

A few cafe-goers wrinkled their noses when Beelzebub sat down, but thought nothing else of the Prince of Hell, except that this person looked strangely… cute. It was the hat that did it. They wore it to protect the swarm of flies topside. The hat had adorably oversized bug eyes. 

Beelzebub set a plain paper bag beside their chair and ordered a coffee, black. It arrived without the intervention of any of the baristas or the laws of physics.

“I thought we were going for inconspicuous,” said Michael, conjuring Earl Grey.

“I won’t criticize an ally,” said Beelzebub, although, they noted, Michael had added the milk _last_.

For a few moments, for the look of the thing, they sipped their respective drinks. Then Michael pulled something from under his chair and set it on the table. It seemed to glow. No humans noticed, because glowing packages don’t happen at cafes.

Beelzebub held their breath for a full five seconds, then asked, “That’s it?”

“If we’re all agreed,” said the Prince of Angels pointedly. 

“Of course we are,” said the Prince of Hell. “But how do we know?”

“We’ve been wrong to waste these centuries thwarting one another’s wiles. We lost sight of the true enemy.”

“So what’s the plan? Taking turns?”

“Like we talked about. You know what it’s capable of.”

Beelzebub took another sip of coffee and made no reach for the thing. “Prove it?” 

Michael looked one way, then the other, as if surveying the scenery. Then he laid a finger on one corner of the parcel, and seemed to concentrate. His sapphire eyes flickered gold.

There was behind them the sudden ring of spilling change as a vending machine upchucked its profits—and thensome—onto the pavement. A few customers yelped in shock. Someone got up to alert the nearest park official. Several others, after these responsible individuals had gone, hurried over with purses and makeshift bags made from pullovers, to collect the dumping change and run off as quickly as possible with the loot.

Beelzebub’s black eyebrows rose an inch and stayed there. Feeling his point was proven, Michael removed the finger. He took another sip of tea. 

“That made my hair stand on end,” they admitted.

“You get used to it.” Michael set aside the tea and miracled some biscuits. “I assume you’re a demon of your word?”

With one trembling hand, the Lord of the Flies lifted the coffee cup again. They managed a sip. “We never would have opposed G-d if mortals hadn’t existed.”

“Not a choice on my part either, you understand. I only acted as my station required.”

“You mean you took no relish in it?”

Michael smiled sweetly. “Of course not. How could an angel be anything but just?”

Beelzebub decided not to answer that a third of former-angels were quite good at it with no training at all. Instead, they carefully lifted up the black paper bag. It was packed with what appeared to be fiery red tissue paper. Its wrappings were much the same as those that seemed to wrap the other package, in that they were an illusion.

It also seemed to pull on the fabric of reality. A paper bag should not have held so much weight.

Michael asked, neutrally, “And it’s genuine?”

“As a sign of our friendship.”

“Our alliance,” Michael amended, the smile not cracking once. “I won’t ask for proof, unless…”

Beelzebub lifted a tired smile. Setting the bag down on the table, they made a motion over the top of it. Some of the tissue spun out into the air like drifting tinsel. It turned gold. Then it seized and creased into a jagged line that shot its ends out to all corners of the garden. The air itself seemed to crack.

All of a sudden a pedestrian scolded her small dog, a couple began arguing over who would push the push-chair, and two shifty-looking informants suddenly pulled pistols on one another.

The cracked reality buckled and nearly snapped. Bits of chaos behind its fissure peeked through. Something with an eye like a continent of silver blinked and was instantly gone, as Beelzebub tightened a fist in the air. They held it still, and the whole world seemed to freeze in time, and wait.

Beelzebub watched Michael. It was the archangel’s turn to hold his breath.

“I could _not_ do more,” said the Lord of the Flies.

Michael looked from one corner of the park to the other. The top of the terrace afforded a clear view of the pond and most of the green. Nothing moved.

At last he said, “It would be irresponsible of me to take you on your word, you being a demon.”

Beelzebub’s smile broadened. They snapped their fingers. 

The dog was kicked, the push-chair overturned, and the baby started to wail as pistols across the green were fired.

* * *

 **G** abriel stopped running for the first time in nearly three hours. A feeding bottle rolled into his foot. He picked it up, and followed the invisible arc of its progress towards a fallen push-chair, which he righted. Then he picked a small toddler off the green. She was alright, aside from having taken time between cries to explore the edibility of the grass. Gabriel looked left and right. The parents were bickering nearby. 

The air felt like electricity. Instinctively, Gabriel held the baby to his chest. He watched a crack in the air itself, red hot as a brand, sizzle, then shrink back into a knot over the table of the cafe across the green. 

“Wow,” he said.

The baby gurgled.

Despite a recently decided hatred of humans, Gabriel liked human infants. They were so helpless and it made him feel strong. The parents obviously had some issues they hadn’t talked out, so he gave them a moment and bobbed the little one up and down until the cries turned to happy squirmy inquiries about the meaning of the universe. Gabriel answered in accommodating baby talk.

Sandalphon folded up his copy of the _Celestial Times_ and strolled over.

He asked, “Do you think it’s going well?”

“You know,” said Gabriel cheerfully, “I’m having doubts.”

Somewhere down the Mall, an ambulance wailed in front of a parade of police cars. Several feeders of ducks seemed to suffer sudden conviction for the innocuous crime and ran for the hedges like they might be liars, thieves, or murderers.

Sandalphon said, “Doubts? I don’t think we’re allowed those.”

“I know. It’s troubling.”

Gabriel snapped his fingers for a small miracle. The couple burst suddenly into simultaneous tears of apology. Meanwhile, the archangel reseated the baby with its bottle. 

“There you go, you little philosophical genius, you…”

“It’s all for good, right?”

Gabriel looked up. Sandalphon was staring towards the cafe, twisting the clip on his tie with absent, worried fingers. 

“What we’re doing?” he added.

“Of course. We’re angels.”

“Then why are we still being nice to the humans?”

“It’s our job.” Gabriel shrugged as they strolled away from the little family. He patted his fellow archangel on the shoulder. 

Uriel was just completing her circuit of the lake to join them. She twirled her sword-turned-parasol, and glanced towards the cafe. They could all see Michael and Beelzebub standing up and shaking hands.

Uriel had overheard the last bit. “Don’t worry, Sandalphon,” she said. “If we play this right, we won’t have to lift a finger to hurt any one of them. They’ll do it themselves.”

* * *

 **P** er prior arrangement five minutes to eleven o’clock, Michael carried the black bag down the staircase of the cafe’s upper terrace. He took a right. A few moments later, Beelzebub took a left, the linen package held carefully at their side. Dagon followed.

“Is that it?” asked Dagon excitedly. He was shivering a little. He wiped froth from his mouth, having very much enjoyed about half of the samples. “What we came for? They really gave it up?”

“And with it all chances of holy water.”

“Fair enough. We’ve no hellfire.”

“Of course not.” They were about to say more when the ground shook.

It was the tremor of an instant, but the water in the pond ruffled like a stormy sea. The lamp posts rocked and flickered, and bits of the ground sank into ditches. In the distance, thunder rumbled, or perhaps something roared. Which _part_ of the distance was undeterminable.

“Was that you?” asked Beelzebub. Dagon shook his head.

“I’ve been very careful about my fiber.”

London had not since the 1500s had a terrible earthquake. As the tremor passed, the pedestrians looked ready to pretend this was still the case. 

“What was it then, you suppose?” Dagon asked.

“Probably the angels,” said Beezebub. “Have you seen Hastur?”

“Not yet. I’m sure he’s lurking.”

“That’s alright then. Any other business?”

Dagon thought a moment. “You know, we haven’t vexed the Tube in awhile. That tremor might have caused some… damage?”

“It _will_ be about rush hour now.” 

* * *

**T** he best laid plans have to start somewhere, but they always end, because no plan is perfect.

This was Lorenz’s point. Plans start somewhere, but the longer those plans last, the more unpredictable the end is, because there’s always new material entering into the equation. He called these interferences _strange attractors_.

Michael made for the meeting point at the Marlborough Gate just as the ground shook. He rolled his eyes. 

“Demons at it again,” he muttered.

At that moment, a particularly noxious shadow caught his attention.

“Popping off, wank-wings?”

Hastur, duke of Hell, was a demon of the Old School, as putrid as Michael was pure. He was a disciple of classic devilry: He didn’t go in for automobiles, intelligent mobile devices, nor whatever they were putting in bananas these days. He went in for pain [Author’s note: always someone else’s]. After the fall of humankind, when notice had come from Heaven that the demons would be allowed to remain in the capacity of accusers and tormentors, he’d been thrilled, since he’d planned to do that anyway.

Haster had survived fire, flood, and A.J. Crowley, which was saying something [Author’s note: in a low, threatening tone of voice]. Now he was watching the strolling mortals with eyes full of nefarious intent. 

Michael turned on a smile. “I’m looking forward to our alliance, Duke Hastur,” he said primly. “But Heaven’s work is never done.”

“I thought we were going to be more familial.” 

“Cooperation was always my policy, for the greater good.”

“I can recall you cutting the ground out from under us. Cooperatively?”

“I was under orders.”

“Orders tell you to smile when you did it?

“Well, now I’m in management,” said Michael, and smiled.

“This whole thing was your idea.”

“Of course not,” said Michael. “It was those two traitors. I think it’s fitting if the same reason they saved the world is the reason we manage to destroy it. Don’t you?”

Hastur glanced across the park, thinking on Beelzebub and Dagon but seeing neither. Probably had gotten ideas, he thought, what with this being a park and all. Gone off on some kind of date to burn down Westminster or have a barbecue or both. 

“Yeah. You gotta point,” Hastur said grudgingly, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Beelzebub didn’t mention.”

“Neither did I,” Hastur said. “But, in the spirit of cooperation, since I’ve taken over Ligur’s department, I’m just wondering, didn’t you used to visit him before—on official business, that is?”

“Of course.”

“You wouldn’t mind keeping that up? ’Tis a very ‘heavenly’ vocation, seeing the just rewards of souls, I would think.”

He smiled an ugly smile, so Michael fixed his to meet it.

“Of course.”

“Just don’t touch the walls. I’d hate for you to ruin your pretty clothes.”

He made a mock bow, then spun and vanished into the earth as all demons do, making a dramatic exit for Hell. He left behind burning wisps of sulphurous smoke.

Michael clutched the handles of the paper bag. It didn’t matter, he told himself. The angels had what they needed now. If they had to play pretend to keep it, that was fine.

Gabriel and the others found him staring at the dispersing sulfur cloud.

“You won’t believe how lost we got at Duck Cottage,” he laughed.

“Is that it?” Sandalphon asked excitedly of the bag.

Michael didn’t answer, only switched on a smile.

“Let’s go home,” said Michael. “We’ve plans to set in motion.”

* * *

 **I** t was noon.

The park was now empty of angel and demon. The woman with the bread drew a deep breath, and sighed. Neither had noticed her. Even the supernatural can live in a reality of their own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2) A ongoing translation of this work is available thanks to JessRLirio at Wattpad!


	3. Chapter the Third - The First Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We might be forgiving enough to give you a legion or two,” Dagon added: “for the upcoming war.”_  
>  _“Against whom?” said Crowley._  
>  _“Them,” said Beelzebub. “_ All _of them.”_

**A** ziraphale and Crowley didn’t hear the pistols or the sirens, because they were at the Globe east of there along the River Thames, watching an early showing of _Hamlet_ which had been modernized to include pistols and sirens. 

All manner of players had come out to celebrate the Bard that month, but the angel and demon had decided to go on the day they actually knew was his birthday, out of respect for an old friend. The lead this morning was someone whose name Crowley had already forgotten because he was not Richard Burbage, but he was doing alright.

Crowley passed Aziraphale a handkerchief because Hamlet was making his goodbyes:

> _...If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart_
> 
> _Absent thee from felicity awhile,_
> 
> _And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,_
> 
> _To tell my story._

“You always cry at this part,” Crowley murmured.

“I can’t help it,” Aziraphale sniffed, and Crowley patted his hand.

Crowley had been at the death of the legendary “[Amleth](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amleth),” who’d been a drinking friend of his. Amleth had lived well past the death of his uncle. There had been a lot less silloquying at his revenge and a lot more incoherent screaming. 

Still, Crowley liked to think people would speak in sonnets were there time to prepare. 

The earth moved and the stage shuddered. Not-Burbage said on cue, “What warlike noise is this?” Crowley was grudgingly impressed. Then he noticed the camcorder.

The BBC had sent a camera over to perch vulture-like on a tripod in the middle of the pit. On the little fold out screen, however, there were too many people on the stage compared to, for lack of a better word, reality.

The one with horns waved at Crowley and the actors shuddered as things unseen pinched at them.

Crowley felt a rising scream twist up his throat. He clenched his teeth firmly and smiled. Then he passed Aziraphale another handkerchief.

There was a double feature today. In the lobby at intermission, the demons followed Crowley from screen to screen, leaping from an historical documentary into a news broadcast and then on through an advert for antacids. Some mouthed menacing-looking words. 

All the televisions were, at the moment, on mute.

Crowley caught Aziraphale’s eye and nodded upwards. The angel took note, and his eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. 

They stepped out into the yard for some air.

“I’ll get us some refreshments,” Aziraphale suggested, “if you’d like to take the call _outside_.”

“Don’t like to,” Crowley admitted, “but I’m curious. I’ll _bite_.” It was a kind of promise. Crowley strolled out to the Bentley and Aziraphale ambled towards the kiosk, keeping him in view.

* * *

**A** n officer was examining the parking lines around the Bentley and, despite being uncertain of how they had moved, was reaching for his ticket pad. Crowley tapped him on the shoulder and he strode away, suddenly thinking he’d dropped his pen. Crowley slid into the Bentley’s driver’s seat and adjusted the radio. It spat static. He sighed in relief.

The Bentley had survived ninety years without a permanent scratch, but its greatest accomplishments were—consecutively—driving through a wall of fire on the M25 three years previous, exploding into a fireball, and rising from oblivion; this last thanks to the boy Crowley and Aziraphale liked to think of these days as their new godson. [Author's note: Long-term readership might be concerned about the _other_ godson. If it helps, you might imagine he is doing very well in the Americas.] Somehow, the Bentley’s apotheosis had made it impervious to FM stations; which was fine by Crowley, who had hated how Hell would interrupt otherwise excellent renditions of Vivaldi’s _The Four Seasons_ (lyrics by Brain May).

He stayed in the seat a moment, letting his nerves unravel in a place _they_ couldn’t get at him. Then, locking up, he crossed to the gatekeeper’s hut and watched the static behind the black and white screen to wait and pretend they still couldn’t.

The elderly man watching his pictures didn’t hear one of them speak in a low, dangerous voice.

“ _CROWLEY_ …”

“Damn,” Crowley said off-hand. The spectator didn’t hear him either. “Is this really the Dark Council? I haven’t heard from you in ages, how’ve you been?”

There was a groan that burst static and malice. “ _THIS IS NOT A PERSONAL CALL, CROWLEY: HE’S ASKING FOR YOU_.”

Crowley stood very still. No one was watching him, but his face went blank anyway. It was a defensive measure, honed in an underworld where frowning at the wrong time, especially in disgust, meant corporal punishment of a _decorporating_ nature. He didn’t think of himself as brave. He wasn’t. Not anymore. Brave got you damned, tormented, and killed. Clever though—that kept your alive. 

Crowley sucked a malicious hiss into his throat and shredded it on his teeth: “I told you to leave us alone.”

“ _THIS ANNOYS US MUCH MORE THAN IT DOES YOU_.”

“Why? Did he tell you to say _please_?”

“ _WANTS TO MAKE UP_.”

“Tell him to take it up with a Higher Authority,” Crowley said. There, he thought. You don’t say you’ve got friends in high places. You just imply it. Like a red something-or-other. “If he’d rather not, then tell him to bugger off,” Crowley said. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers. Every television and radio within a hundred meters winked out. 

He kept his hand raised. It was shaking. He tried not to think on it. 

“What are those red things again?” he muttered. 

The elderly man noticed him and asked, “If you need a taxi, lad, I can call one for ye.”

Before Crowley could respond, Aziraphale arrived with their snacks in a to-go bag, looking regretful through his smile. He took Crowley’s hand and lowered it for him.

“I had a feeling,” he said. “Let’s get to the gallery before the rush. I’d hate to miss it.”

“There’ll be a line at first open,” said Crowley absently.

Aziraphale tilted his head to one side and seemed to listen for something. “I don’t think there will be,” he said mischievously.

That brought back Crowley’s smile.

Aziraphale had just delayed the trains between Earl’s Court and Cannon Station. The Bentley would easily reach the National Gallery in twenty minutes or less.

And, to be clear, what Aziraphale had just done was a miracle. 

* * *

**T** here are many ways to define the word “miracle.” If someone recovers from cancer, it’s common for family members to shout, “It’s a miracle!” And it’s standard bedside manner for any physicians, surgeons, and radiologists to complain about this ingratitude out of earshot. 

There are some people who say that a child’s laughter or a dog’s happily wagging tail are miracles. They aren’t. They’re privileges. In places where children do not laugh and dogs do not wag their tails, these are not what people pray for. 

That the Tube between St. James and Cannon Street Stations halted operations of all lines just as a key tunnel collapsed under the influence of two demons with a magic box _was_ a definite miracle. 

But the word “miracle” is used liberally about as often as the word “chaos.” It can mean anything from the act of a heavenly principality to a butterfly flapping its wings.

This miracle sent Beelzebub and Dagon to the National Gallery.

* * *

**A** dam Young was trying to look sagely. He was good at it, good at all kinds of looking. Sounding too. He was stealing the show from the teacher of his eighth-grade class. 

“I don’t really understand why everyone asks why she’s smiling,” he said knowledgeably of the woman in the painting. A line of stanchions stood between it and them. It had its own security guards, flown in, as it had been, from France. Adam said, “She’s having her portrait painted. Anyone would be a bit smug.”

His classmate, Brian, raised his hand before the teacher could remark. “Unless they were a criminal on the run,” he said quickly.

“Well, of course not them,” Adam jumped back in. “They wouldn’t sit for a painting on the run. It’d be more like that one with Bacchus in the next room.”

“How do you suppose they do the battles?” asked Brian, again interrupting the teacher’s attempt to continue the lecture.

“I suppose they must have people take notes, then pose after,” said Adam.

“Excuse me, but that’s ridiculous,” said another voice. It was late to breaking, but its tone was about forty-five years early. “How would the people who died in battle be posed for a painting? I imagine it would become awfully smelly.”

"Of course they can get substitutes," said Adam. "Body doubles. Like in the movies." 

“I like actors who do their own stunts,” remarked Brian offhand. “But there must be professionals?”

“Almost certainly,” Adam said. “Professional painting recreators. There’d have to be.”

Unconsciously, Adam knew he could have said anything at this point and his classmates would have believed him. And it was the unconsciousness of it that kept him likeable. He was more interested in moving on though, so he let the matter drop, feeling he and Brian had done enough creative history for the day.

Brian grinned. They would have to talk about that later: stunt doubles for paintings. Adam nodded. They would. Adam wandered unhindered over to the second homeroom class, where a girl in cornrows was considering a replica of _Vanity_ by “Sculptor Unknown.” 

The girl's smiles were, to Adam, far more mysterious than the Mona Lisa’s. 

“I don't see what makes her vain,” said Adam. “She's just checking her face in a mirror, while-as ’e’s sculpting her naked.”

“Classic masculine projection,” said the girl seriously. Her name was Pippin Galadriel Moonchild Parker, but that was just for paperwork. Anyone not wanting a black eye called her Pepper. “She's probably keeping an eye on him.”

“That’s smart, that is.”

Adam was fourteen, and not comfortable at himself staring too long at nudes, so he looked at Pepper instead. He wanted to say something clever, usually could. It was just harder around her lately for reasons he couldn’t explain. It had something to do with how he couldn't read her thoughts like he could Brian's. 

A practical idea kicked in. "Anyone with skin the color of alabaster would do better putting on some clothes against sunburn than standing around with vases and roses, especially the roses."

"Oh, that's all symbolism. Wombs and such."

"And such?" Adam panicked a little. He looked away and tried to find something both interesting and clothed to talk about. 

Which was when he spotted his godfathers.

* * *

**M** ost demons do not remember being angels. This is due to two things. 

First, most don’t try. They like things as they are. Most think of themselves as the tax collectors of the supernatural world: It’s an unlikable job, but someone needs to do it. 

And they can still do miracles, though not what humans might _call_ miracles, and they don’t answer to limits or quotas like the angels do. There’s not much to regret but damnation, and since that part’s non-negotiable why bother?

Second, most demons are in their waking hours distracted by a perpetual state of _terror_. This terror is caused and maintained by their leader, the Ruler of Darkness, Lord of the Underworld, the Accuser himself. It’s all unconscious now, like frogs being boiled: Most demons don’t even realize how terrified they are because of how constant the threat is. If the fear ever vanished, they’d take their own pulse, wondering if somehow, against long odds, they had died.

It isn’t fear of _death_. (Only holy water can utterly destroy a demon.) It’s the fear of how long and how severe the pain can be when you _can’t_ die. The devil does research. He has whole legions tasked with it. 

So demons live in fear of Heaven, in fear of their master, and in fear of one another. After all, it’s not paranoia if they really are all out to get you. Needless to say, alliances are rare. There are so few things stronger than fear.

Crowley _did_ remember that he had been an angel. The devil, for reasons unclear, had never let him forget. 

But he’d spent much of his time as a demon pretending to be _human_. He’d been fascinated by humans, right since the first Adam had taken the apple from Eve, realized what she’d done, and decisively bitten into it. Crowley had watched them come up with alibis and set out on their own. These imperfect creatures swung like pendulums between good and evil. Crowley, likewise, swung between repulsion and speechless awe.

But he had liked the Renaissance, when he’d been awake for it.

“It’s a good likeness, I think,” he said, lifting his eyebrows and waiting for Aziraphale to catch on. 

They were standing in front of a small framed piece, a sketch on old paper, simple but clear in its detail. The angel leaned in for a better look and, upon having the look, also raised his eyebrows. (His didn’t come down.)

Still, he said nothing, so at last Crowley leaned in and with a twitch of impatience said, “Got the eyes wrong.”

“What on earth did you agree for?” Aziraphale asked quietly. 

“Well, I knew he was working on the _Mona Lisa_. I needed leverage. You know that sketch is so much better than the original.”

“But,” said Aziraphale, his mouth wriggling in and out of a smile, “naked?”

“All the best art features people naked, angel,” Crowley murmured back. 

“ _Guernica_?”

“Realistic people…”

“ _Water Lilies_?”

“People…”

“ _The Last Supper_.”

“You can’t call that an accurate representation of a _Seder_ , you know.”

“It’s the feel of the thing.” But his friend was grinning. They stepped aside for a tour guide and let her explain the origins of the phrase “squaring the circle.”

“The use of the circle and square for the _Virtruvian Man_ alludes to the expression which means trying to do the impossible…”

Crowley, never one to let a topic alone, leaned in and whispered to Aziraphale. “Anyway, it was a hot day, and he had me back to his flat to talk about Vitruvius over a glass of _vino_ , and he got this idea...”

Aziraphale whispered right back: “That ended with you naked?”

Crowley wasn’t one to blush, but his dark red hair got somehow _redder_. He said casually, “That’s what I mean. It’s a rule.” 

“You know, I had a few painting lessons when I was a member of that lovely gentleman’s club.”

“The discreet one?” Crowley’s haired reddened further. 

“Lovely chaps they all were.” 

A young voice accompanied a waving hand in the crowd.

“So did he do it? Square the circle?”

Crowley and Aziraphale broke off their whispering and spotted the hand—and the boy attached to it.

“No,” the tour guide said, “that wasn’t possible with geometric algebra.”

Adam Young was in the crowd, staring at the picture or, rather, the lines and dimensions around the picture, his imagination working things out and, where it failed, filling the gaps with ideas. 

The tour group moved on, but Adam turned back at the last moment. He grinned at Aziraphale and Crowley. Now they could see him clearly, it was apparent how much he’d grown in three years. He had that all-elbows look that plagues most freshman before the others parts catch up. Still, he was less awkward than most. He’d always been the kind of person people followed without thinking much about it. Got that from his father, Crowley decided. 

“I knew it was you,” Adam said, stopping just short of a hug. He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to play cool. 

“You’re getting tall.” Crowley tousled his off-blond hair.

“Adam, my boy, it’s been ages since Tadfield,” said Aziraphale, and clapped him on the back. “How’s everything? Your parents, they’re well?”

“They’re fine, and you’re changing the subject.”

“We’re appreciating art,” said Crowley, who’d also pocketed his hands and never lied if others could mishear the truth. “It’s Da Vinci’s birthday.”

“And Shakespeare’s,” Aziraphale added, beaming, “but you only have our word on it.”

“Cor,” Adam gasped, then he put on airs. “I’m appreciating art too, or I’m trying to. I have so many questions. You’re lucky you knew all the great artists.”

“Might want to keep it down,” said Crowley as Aziraphale made shushing motions. “We’re not supposed to be here.”

“Wicked.” But Adam lowered his voice loyally. “Did you sneak in? Did you break in before daylight? Did you stop time like you did back when…”

“We paid. We like art. Want to see it keep going,” said Crowley. “But you know we’re not on good terms with, well...”

Adam pointed up. Aziraphale nodded. Adam pointed down. Crowley nodded. Adam looked sympathetic, which Crowley almost couldn’t stand.

“Anyway, we’re on our way out,” said Crowley. “Going to pop over to the gift shop for a souvenir postcard.”

“Can I come?” Adam looked back at the amorphous blob of second-graders and grinned. “I mean, if I’m there when they finish, I don’t see why anyone should complain about in between.”

“Point,” said Crowley.

“Don’t encourage him,” Aziraphale scolded. 

“What’s a godfather for but to spoil his godson?”

“To be an example of virtue.”

“What’s left for me to do then?”

Adam laughed. “I forgot how you two are. Hey, you should come back to Tadfield sometime.”

“That sounds delightful,” said Aziraphale. “But for now, it’s important for a young man your age to be making friends outside of school.”

Adam glanced across the room at a girl. Crowley realized it was the girl known as “Pepper” by most. [Author's note: In Crowley’s mind she was admirably known as “the girl who had stabbed War-incarnate in the face.”] 

Adam shook his head as if knocking something loose. He hugged Aziraphale suddenly, then Crowley with a quick apology: “Good idea. You two don’t cause trouble.”

He bounded off after Pepper. Aziraphale’s smile grew smaller but warmer. 

“Well, I’ll be,” he said.

Crowley straightened his rumpled shirt and brushed at his arms before checking his sunglasses. “Growing like a weed.”

“Not quite,” Aziraphale observed, still smiling after him at something. “But that’s alright, isn’t it?”

“Sure it is,” said Crowley. “Come on, angel. I hear Kemp’s got a new book out called ‘Living with Leonardo.’ I may have helped with the ghostwriting.”

“Well now I’m certainly intrigued.”

* * *

**D** agon led the way. Not that two demons had to think much about where they were going. Generally demons smell the slant of the evil inclination a block away and just stroll after it. The London Tube is rank with it. All that low-grade evil seeping out of souls running late, running slow, or just running mad. 

But when they arrived, something was wrong.

“You know _he_ was right about one thing,” said Dagon as Beelzebub eyed the scrolling letters: “DELAYED” flashed on every board. “They do mess themselves up most days.”

And so, unable to bring down another tunnel on anything worth crushing under concrete, Beelzebub pointed out a poster for the National Museum.

* * *

**T** hree demons walk into a gift shop.

This is not the setup for a joke.

The last of the three uses the inside door, without the little bell. With him strides an angel. They turn over interesting looking books (hardcover only; Aziraphale is very particular). This demon, not one for reading more than sparingly, thumbs through some pages and smiles fondly at a memory. 

The other two came by the outside entrance. 

The first adjusted an adorable hat. Flies zipped out from it and began to buzz in people’s ears: _It’s alright to stay past the lunch hour_ , they said. _Just blame the traffic_. The other demon ran a claw along the barcodes of several postcards on a rack. It would take _weeks_ for inventory to be sorted again. The pair of them looked around for more malicious work to do, these minor temptations taking little more than a shrug of effort, all in a day’s work for demons, all in a day’s lunch-break really, and they still wanted to cause trouble.

They passed the register, intent on a potential architectural disaster at the Portico of the National Gallery. Far too intent, in fact, to notice the two coming from the direction of the register with a bag of several books and a wrapped white box of pastries in hand. 

There was a comic crash of coincidence.

But this is not a joke.

Consider chaos.

Consider how a closed system is the least chaotic of all systems. Consider also how it can never exist in human experience. Humans and demiurges alike strive for a predictable world, but they will never hold all the cards and they have nothing to bet that the Dealer doesn’t already own. Their best laid plans go to ruin. The Almighty sits back in Her dark room, shuffles her blank cards, and says nothing. And smiles.

“My word!” said the angel (whose word went a very long way). Crowley plucked up the box and the bag and then the angel, and glared pointedly at the demons, who were staring at them with livid expressions. The gift shop may have been about to go up in flames, but it was Heaven’s guess as to who’d light the spark.

Aziraphale was an angel. Angels had ranks and Aziraphale was a principality, a guardian of territories. He had looked after London, Soho since a century before it was called as such. This jurisdiction had, of his own volition, extended to much of London since Armageddon. Not being on the side of Heaven’s bureaucracy had never changed him being what he was. And when a person is who they truly are, it terrifies those unsure of themselves, as a certain Bard penned centuries before.

There was a _zip_ - _zip_ - _zip_ as the flies rushed back into the shelter of the hat. Beelzebub’s eyes were wide as golf balls.

“You,” they hissed. Dagon fumbling picked up their package.

Angel wings are feathered. They can be soft as down. They can also be hard as diamond blades. Aziraphale’s arching wings made a sound like a whetstone grinding steel. The humans in the shop didn’t notice, much as chicks peck happily under a protective hen’s care.

“I won’t ask what you’re doing here,” said Aziraphale stonily, “because you are leaving.”

“Should have known it was you, ruining…” Dagon stopped as Beelzebub’s elbow dug sharply into his ribs.

“Have it your way,” they said. “But you’ll regret it soon enough.”

They turned back to the exit, but Crowley was there, swinging his parcels languidly from one hand. He smiled a dangerous smile that was also charming. 

“What’s got you the gumption to say that?” he asked. 

“Didn’t the Dark Council give you a call, Crowley?” asked Beelzebub.

“Gave them a raincheck, your disgrace.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” said Dagon, raising his chin and folding his arms. “But you should know Hell is about to take a page out of your book.”

“Your lot are disgusting enough not to add defacing literature to the offense list,” said Aziraphale. 

The Lord of the Flies rolled their eyes. “Hell and Heaven are getting along now.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Crowley, not sure what else to say. A glance at Aziraphale proved his friend didn’t like this news either. “A whole army of Heaven and Hell against us. What an honor.”

“Not against you,” Beelzebub sneered. “You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

“We might be forgiving enough to give you a legion or two,” Dagon added, impressed by this quick thinking: “for the upcoming war.”

“Against _whom_?” said Crowley.

“ _Them_ ,” said Beelzebub. “All of them.” They smirked, but still warily eyed Aziraphale. It would take two of three archangels with a good headstart to get the level of divine wrath a principality could smite with on a thought. But they said, “It’ll just take a bit of imagination.”

“Where are you going to get any of that?” asked Crowley, and frowned as he thought of Adam.

“Let it take you someplace else,” said Aziraphale. “Whatever your plans, we want nothing to do with them and you’d better not bring them here.”

“Spoken like one with nothing to lose.” Beelzebub tugged on a scaly arm of the Lord of the Files, but looked at Crowley as they passed, “You teach him that, _Crawly_?”

The little bell rang above the door, and they were gone.

Aziraphale tucked his wings away primly. “Barbarians,” he muttered, and straightened his tie. “How are the scones?”

Crowley hefted the white wrapped package and heard no discernible grumble of broken cookies. “Yeah, seem alright,” he said. “What do you suppose he meant, that thing about imagination?”

“Likely just blowing hot air,” said Aziraphale. With a wave he repaired the broken bar codes. He shifted and seemed to listen for something.

Crowley nudged a few loiterers with the memory that if they were late from lunch again they might lose their vacation time. (Sloth to beat sloth, worked every time.) He noticed Aziraphale and asked, “AM channels again?”

“No, just…” Aziraphale frowned. “An odd feeling. I don’t think any of my people left art here but…”

“Something miraculous?”

“Couldn’t say,” admitted Aziraphale. “I suppose my nerves are just frazzled. What would you say to a drink?”

Crowley frowned. He felt something odd too. He couldn’t put his finger on it, and it wasn’t particularly unpleasant.

“I’ve been meaning to see to the plants,” he said, “but you’re right something’s… herrings.”

“Come again?”

“Red things, distracting.”

“I don’t think it smells at all like fish.” Aziraphale shrugged. “A shame about the plants. I’ve a case of Pinot Noir Patricia Trentino just in from the Garden.”

That piqued Crowley’s interest. “Maybe one drink. To toast old friends.”

“To toast old friends,” Aziraphale agreed. “And new.”

They headed for the Bentley and eventually the bookshop. The bag of books and the nicely wrapped package slid back and forth across the Bentley’s back seat as the car wove its way along the A40.

Behind them, lost in the blur that one hundred and ten miles per hour leaves behind, a flower shop’s display window blossomed spontaneously as every rose bloomed anew. Farther down, a bakery breadbasket overflowed into the street.

And nearby and far away, on the other side of reality, a little bit of chaos rolled over in its sleep, and shook the foundations of everything.


	4. Chapter the Fourth - A Moment’s Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It had been a lovely evening. Somewhere between wine and sushi they’d wound up back at Crowley’s new flat. Crowley’s taste was in minimalism, but he knew how to choose comfortable furniture and they made good use of it and his stemware._

**I** n the corporate office of Heaven, there is a great hall with wall-to-wall windows. Like any such office, it looks down on things. No matter how far the ophanim ride their segways, it seems to go on forever, but there’s always a table when it’s needed. No chairs though. Angels (most angels) generally don’t sit.

The windows offer a view of the great temples and tombs of the world. Whether built for the immortal, the dead, or the undead, they are magnificent structures: humankind’s attempts to touch eternity. Whatever the motive, if anything is dedicated to something holy, Heaven can see it here. [Author’s note: That’s why they’re so strict about building codes.]

Even the ruins of Babel, gravel nowadays, are visible on the horizon. 

Michael had prepared a pillar and sconce for the Torch. He was good at making such arrangements, and Gabriel was duly impressed when the prince set their prize in place: It fit perfectly. 

Across the hall, centered just so between the latticed ceiling and the floor, hung the beautiful and blue jewel of the Earth. It turned slowly, wreathed in white cloud. Its topography was perfect in every detail, except there were no satellites, no city nightscapes, and no other signs of humanity. 

Angels traveled to and from the mortal realm via this sphere. It was a rendition of the earth as the angels preferred to view it. 

Uriel clasped her hands in front of her and smiled in a cool, contented way that belied little of the sun’s fury. “When do we begin?” she asked.

“Tomorrow night, of course,” said Michael. “Seventh day and all.”

“I suppose we could all do with some rest,” Gabriel beamed. 

He lingered as Sandalphon sauntered off after Uriel. They were talking about solar flares with a great deal of enthusiasm, but Gabriel kept half a violet eye on Michael, who was studying the Torch and wringing one hand in the other.

“Are you nesting tonight?” Gabriel asked.

“I’m not that tired,” said Michael. “I think I’ll take in the view.”

Gabriel had practiced fixed smiles. They were necessary to motivate the troops. “You know you best,” he said. He strode off before disappointment could catch up with him. An unfamiliar feeling tugged at his heels: Curiosity. 

What about that meeting had left Michael so quiet?

It didn’t feel right to ask questions though. Never did. Of anyone.

The Torch flickered its golden light out of eternal darkness and Michael stared at it, then at the globe, then at the monuments of the world—the vanities of humankind. He spent hours after thinking long and hard. About ruin.

The truth is, there are few true initial conditions. An experiment designed in a vacuum must still consider the circumstances that created the vacuum. A study of the orbit of binary stars still must consider how those stars came to be divided. Beginnings are delicate times. Full of uncertainty. So are endings, unless you’ve mastered chaos.

But Michael liked endings. You knew something was bad because it ended. You knew what was good because it endured. The angels were good because they were still in Heaven. The demons were evil because they were... not. It was so simple that way.

This lent itself to a bit of a problem, though. There was always a chance that things which had endured thus far might end.

Michael looked at the globe again. It was merely a navigation tool, but he liked to think of humanity’s home as being such a small, unremarkable thing. Small, fragile, and insignificant.

There is more than one way to skin a cat, humans say. Michael smiled to himself. There is more than one way to end the world.

* * *

 **E** ventually, Michael strolled over to see the angel on duty in the healers wing (the pun was absolutely intended). It was the head surgeon today. Raphael had what would have been a familiar face were it not for unfortunate events six thousand years prior, and his long red hair drifted behind him like a flame. 

The healer prescribed three strains of celestial hymns to help with the sleeplessness; he recommended Michael come by after the Sabbath if the trouble persisted.

“You have a lot on your mind, your grace,” said the other angel knowingly. “It happens to the best of us, so of course it would you. You need not worry.”

He tied back the red hair with a bit of fire, then set a flask under a pair of pipets. He cracked his knuckles. The glittering melodies in the pipets chimed happily, just waiting for a harmonic solution. 

Raphael recommended, “Enjoy the day off, stretch your wings, walk the stars: It’s a lovely space down there.”

“Thank you.” Michael smiled pleasantly until the healer looked away. 

All angels are kindred, born of celestial fire and water, but some are split from the same divine spark. For a moment longer, Michael watched the way the lanky angel bent like a birch over his work. Raphael always had a steady hand, but he never stood completely still. He wasn’t a soldier; he was a binder and a builder. 

No one ever mentioned the twin.

Turning away abruptly, Michael strode towards the aerie. Since the Fall, Heaven is no longer a network of interlocking musical spheres but rather, for the safety of all, a sturdy, strong-barred cage. The aeries still exist though; most angels don’t sleep in beds. 

Michael took the long way. It wasn’t a lie if you meant the truth when you said it. (After all, angels couldn’t lie.) But he tried to avoid Gabriel. He found an empty nest and curled up in his own wings, then swallowed the vial of hymns in one go and fell asleep.

* * *

 **I** t had been a lovely evening. Somewhere between wine and sushi they’d wound up back at Crowley’s new flat. Crowley’s taste was in minimalism, but he knew how to choose comfortable furniture and they made good use of it and his stemware.

As the sun set, Aziraphale knew he wanted somewhere he couldn’t be found, even if the forces of Above and Below were wary of them. It wasn’t until nine p.m. that he was getting up the nerve to say so.

Per tradition, they told each other every story they could remember about Leonardo and William. They brought first editions of works from the bookshop and laughed over anecdotes whose bad first drafts they especially remembered. After four or five glasses of Chardonnay, Crowley even took a crack at his own sonnets. They were slurred but sincere, and Aziraphale smiled as he refilled his friend’s glass. He felt his nerves steadying.

“And you say you’re not one for literature,” he remarked.

“Not the reading, I sssay,” Crowley hissed. He always hissed when he got emotional or drunk. 

He straightened his crooked sunglasses—or rather changed them from one crooked angle to another. His eyes were bright and he’d ended up with his head back on Aziraphale’s knee. He drank by pouring the wine directly into his mouth. Like his driving on the A40, he never missed where he intended things to go, even if he hardly thought of the destination. Aziraphale smiled at a stray thought: _And they say no demon has grace_.

“I remember his spelling was atrocious,” the angel teased.

“Doesn’t matter the ssspelling. It’s the ssspeaking, angel, love,” Crowley said, gesturing widely with his emptied glass. “Ssssspelling’sss hoity-toity elitisssm.” 

Aziraphale reclaimed the glass before it could shatter on something. He extracted himself from the couch. 

“Shall I crack open the biscuits then?”

“Yeah? Oh, a’right.” Crowley rolled off the couch and shook his head. “I gotta see to the plants though.”

Aziraphale’s smile wriggled against a frown. He turned away to hide the battle. Choices, they both agreed, were something neither would ever argue against. Still, he had more than once listened as Crowley gave the houseplants their daily scolding. He never liked it, and he couldn’t help praising them behind their master’s back.

Crowley’s apartment was the epitome of style whatever the decade. This year, he had a wall-mounted television, an antique ansaphone, and a refrigerator full of gourmet foods that never spoiled. The fact that the television had surround sound without any speakers and that the refrigerator worked despite never being plugged in were attributes of being owned by someone with more imagination than any supernatural being Aziraphale had ever met. 

This decade, the demon was going for the severity of dark, post-modern granite, softened by artistic pieces in scrolled frames or set on greco-hellenistic pillars. Crowley’s conversatory stood under skylights between the main entrance and the office. There, the plants shook as if anticipating a tropical storm. It made Aziraphale uncomfortable, not just because of the harshness, but because he could hear the roots as well as the leaves, so to speak.

“So, think you can go a day without me and ssstart letting loose? Stand up ssstraighter and grow like a plant! You think I don’t know what you’re doing even when I’m not here? I made you what you are. You think I can’t replace any of you in an inssstant?”

Aziraphale slipped into the kitchen, so he wouldn’t have to hear the rest. Some nights, Crowley took the Bentley and drove off who-knew-where with some offending foliage, only to return within the hour with an empty pot and a warning to any plant that dared go yellow around the edges. He had the fullest, brightest plants Aziraphale had seen since Eden, but also the most terrified; and, well, bothering humans was one thing, practically the demon’s job description. But bothering himself was another thing altogether. And that kind of self-abuse, Aziraphale knew from experience, wasn’t imagined. It was learned. So was self-love.

He’d start his nerves on something small, he told himself, like asking to stay the night.

Aziraphale pulled out a plate for the biscuits and lifted the package onto the island.

Five minutes later, Crowley entered the kitchenette to find Aziraphale pressed against the cupboards as if the island held a bowl of hellfire. This relationship to biscuits was unusual. Crowley froze in the doorframe to confirm it. Then he realized what was amiss. He, too, shrank back.

“Is that the…?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“...magical glowy thing?”

Aziraphale nodded again.

The Philosopher’s Stone glowed a lightning shade of blue. It sat, otherwise quiescent, on the counter beside the tea tray, quietly warping space. Crowley swallowed. He could actually see the shards of reality slipping through dimensions around it, reflecting a hundred potential universes, some of them mundane and others vividly horrid, all in only narrow glimpses.

“Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” he muttered for irony. “You touch it?”

“Of course not.”

“Would it, that is…?”

“The angels in engineering were fiddling with it. I don’t know what would happen if we just touched it.”

“Don’t think we should find out.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale. This wasn’t a matter of nerve but of courage, and so the principality peeled himself off the wall and edged forward.

“What’re you doing?” asked Crowley. 

“I’m going to pick it up using the cloth,” Aziraphale explained. “Do you still have that safe?”

“I… _ngg_ … Yeah.” Crowley staggered out of the kitchenette and down towards the office. He was so distraught he forgot to shoot the rubber trees a dark glance for slouching. 

At the far wall, he pulled down a sketch of the Mona Lisa and turned the combination to open the safe behind it. It was a typical human safe, albeit one that could withstand a nuclear inferno. Crowley had chosen it to confound the armies of Hell. Other demons understood the supernatural, but the ingenuity of humans outside of sigils and mantras left them lost.

He opened the heavy door and stood back, turned around to stare towards the kitchen. “Aziraphale?” he called, his voice weak. He held his breath until the angel appeared.

Aziraphale carried the tesseract at arm's length in its fabric sling, which he’d pinched up by the corners. He was still very much himself. The light dancing in his pale curls threw rainbows to the corners of the room. Crowley stood back as the angel set the device in the safe, then he shut the door and spun the lock. 

“ _Four-zero-zero-four_ ,” he muttered. “You won’t tell?”

“Who would I tell?” Aziraphale countered, then his bookishness got the better of him: “Is that from _Job_?”

“You won’t, you promise?”

“No, dear boy, I’m not a fool, but we can’t keep it here.”

“Can’t we?” Crowley backed out of the room, Aziraphale following. The demon collapsed on the couch and pulled a full bottle of Chardonnay towards him. This time he didn’t bother with the glass. “What’re we gonna do? Put it back in Eden? Lord Beelzebub and Dagon—Angel, they were carrying that thing.”

“They were. Good heavens,” Aziraphale said. 

“That whole talk about getting along. Was that what all your AM was about this morning?”

“My…?” Aziraphale shook his head. “It must have been. But only archangels can guess what it does. Why on earth with they trust it with the Prince of Demons?”

“Well, they’ll know we have it, no doubt. And the Council, they said...” He broke off. He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Crowley?”

Crowley drew a deep breath. “I don’t think I can deal with this drunk. Not sure I can sober.”

“Crowley…” 

Aziraphale sat and pulled off Crowley’s skewed sunglasses. He was the only person Crowley would ever allow to do that. They were a kind of shield. 

The angel said, “They must be doubly afraid of us now.”

Crowley took another breath, steadied by the idea. “Yeah, I guess.”

Aziraphale found his nerve steeling itself in light of current events. “It’s nearly midnight. I don’t suppose you should drive me home in your condition.”

“No, I’ll have to…”

“And, I know it sounds silly, but if you’ll indulge me, I really don’t like the thought of spending tonight alone, what with you having moved but them knowing where the bookshop is.”

“Oh.” Crowley relaxed, pleasantly surprised (all the more with the unpleasantness to contrast with). He thought of his bed, which he kept made up in the other room. Big enough for two. Angels don’t sleep together in anything but the literal sense [Author’s note: according to certain printed sources]. It’s a matter of trust all the same. 

In the aeries of Heaven, there is no marriage and no sex, but some angels nest together like turtledoves, wings folded about one another, hushed into rest by celestial harmonies, blending dreams. In Hell, they find corners and cells to stand up in. If anyone catches them, they make excuses or threats, whichever works to be left alone.

Crowley knew he’d never see or hear Heaven’s sanctuaries again. He’d never cared much for the music anyway. But he found himself remembering the shine of Aziraphale’s wings over the gift shop. He felt his hair, then, and his face brightening nearly to fire red. He knew it wasn’t the wine.

“Well, no, I mean, yeah,” he managed. “Of course. You’re welcome to stay over anytime, angel. _Mi nido es tu nido..._ and all that.”

The rest of the evening passed as you might imagine (depending on which printed sources you prefer), but suffice it to say that in the past whenever danger keened while dark plans loomed against him, Crowley found himself driven inextricably towards the only point of light he’d let into his life since his soul fell to the dark. This time was no exception.

* * *

 **T** he devil broods in the ninth circle of Hell, pondering a map of the world that smolders at the edges. It is not a sphere. It is flat, reduced, _suppressed_. He has gotten a few mortals to think the world is so simple and ridiculous as that. He has gotten many mortals to do much worse.

Seven-horned is he to mock perfection. The gems in his rings are the souls of tyrants. Certain mortals say he knows his end and fears it, but this is wishful thinking. The fearsome fears not the fearful.

Still, it’s not been the same since Armageddon failed. It wasn’t the location, although Mount Megiddo is grander than Oxfordshire. It wasn’t the Horsemen. They’d been right on time.

The fault lay with the devil’s son, the so-called Antichrist. 

He’d _rebelled_.

The devil’s son, his _rebellious son_ , not only turned his back and denied the devil but used his _gifts_ to rearrange Time and Space to make it so that that relationship never existed. Now his mother really was named Deirdre, not Lilith. His father was named Arthur—not some mythic king but a middle-aged man with nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon than read his car’s maintenance manual. 

Not that the devil can’t appreciate irony. Now and then, despite himself, he smiles between burning scowls. But the rest of the time, he disproves Dante: The ice of the ninth circle melted long ago. Now coals steam and flames hiss as the air writhes, all tortured in the heat.

The lesser demons have been keeping their distance for months, leaving their master alone with his map.

Now he runs a nail across a certain capital, and war breaks loose. He nudges in the bureaucrats, ever ready to line their pockets with war profiteering, and watches their souls sink. 

Just a narrow look at a river basin and a drought sucks it dry. A twist of his nail turns up the volume. He basks in the wails and gnashing of teeth there as neighbor turns on neighbor.

He grows bored though, distraught. These are minor disasters, accelerated destruction, nothing new.

And like lice on a guard dog, it never fails: Among the soldiers come, too, the doctors and humanitarians. Among death and desolation, rotary clubs and impoverished scientists stand fast. Those _blessed_ not-for-profits. 

He tries to tempt them, manages a few pitfalls for pride, but they want nothing he offers. In frustration he directs his rage elsewhere. Perfect: A handful of youngsters are getting suspicious of their government. Better send them hunting aliens then, pickle the healthy zeal for truth before it goes to seed somewhere it could make a difference. He snaps his fingers, and he moves on.

Africa next: child soldiers and child brides and civil war. But men here who do his bidding are oftimes _too_ cruel. They decimate populations and send souls flying to Heaven, all to testify before the angels of judgement. The take of Hell is scant by the end. 

_Mortals these days_. The devil glowers. They don’t appreciate the long game. But it’s hard to when life is cheap. Not much motivation to invest in the future. The rich countries, though...

He smirks at a jagged skyline.

The rich countries are easy to corrupt. He has pins here, favorite places: stuck in the tops of skyscrapers, in each penthouse, a corporate crony ready to play Nebuchadnezzer and become a beast. Bribes aren’t as common as superpacs. Hit lists are less refined than smear campaigns. The things humans do to other humans…. 

There are child brides and soldiers here as well, hidden behind bureaucracy, drowning in religiosity, dying in the same old myths of Holy War. If the notary puts a stamp on it, who can argue? If it’s said under the banner of the Flag, what choice is there? The sick die. The poor starve. And it takes just the timely stroke of a pen, or its delay, to seal the souls responsible for Hell. 

The devil settles back on his haunches, his mood lifted. Not too many go in for Providence these days. Too much thinking. No, the law is the highest good, and it belongs to the highest bidder. That’s capitalism. He chuckles. He still keeps Ayn Rand’s soul standing under a leaden weight until its supernal memory of bones splinter and break. She thought, self-made, she was so strong.

The devil idly scans oceans and satellites. Then his gaze falls on Britain, then on London, then on Soho. He hasn’t been able to touch the place in three years. He glowers again, looks back to Tadfield. Not there either. It’s a matter of borders, something that’s penicillin to sin wherever it lurks.

It won’t matter eventually though, he reminds himself. What are Tadfield and Soho if everything else burns? He has a plan.

He only need wait for the final key to arrive.

* * *

 **I** n the offices of Hell, a stifled scream came out as a shrill, suppressed whine.

The basket of cookies, revealed when the box of its transport unfolded, sat dead center on Beelzebub’s heavy, intimidating desk. It was more threatening than any bit of paperwork stored therein.

The clocks on the wall ticked seconds away.

Forcibly prying open their own throat, Beelzebub recovered their voice. They asked the question a prince must because dukes avoid it: “How did this happen?”

Dagon counted points on his claws. “It couldn’t have. We never put it down. It was with us at the park, in the train station, in the tunnels…”

The two demons looked at each other. There was a pause they were unaware lent dramatic effect to the moment.

“The gift shop,” they both said at once.

Dagon glanced at the wall of clocks. It was midnight in London. It had all been going so well. How had it all gone wrong? “If the angels find out…”

“They’re not going to,” said Beelzebub immediately. “We’ll just have to go back and—”

A rap on the door stopped them short. Dagon hurriedly tied the cookies in their cloth.

“Who is it?” Beelzebub yelled at the door. It shuddered.

“Hastur, your disgrace. Is Lord Dagon with you?”

Dagon pulled over a few scraping drawers. On the third try, he found a niche, dropped the parcel into it, and slammed the drawer shut.

“Come in then,” said Beelzebub. 

Hastur pushed in the door. He looked tired and annoyed—which was usual. 

He held a sturdy, dun-colored file in one hand. It was caked with something unpleasant. 

“Lord Dagon.” He waved the file pointedly. “About the records in the tormentors’ office again…”

Dagon tried to lean nonchalantly on the desk. “Again?” he echoed.

“It’s your jurisdiction,” Hastur reminded him, turning pages. “The corpses in the flaying department…”

Dagon looked lost.

“...I told the tormentors four-millimeter razor edges. Some bloke’s been whetting razors to five. I need a paper trail to follow up so I know who to maim.”

“Maim?”

“What d’you want me to do? Buy them flowers?” Hastur sighed. “It’s an art, see: Longer edge means it’s faster: A twenty percent decrease in the hours of daily torment for sinners being flayed for ‘weakness of the flesh.’ This is Hell. These are sinners. They aren’t allowed relief.”

“That’s right, of course,” said Dagon, nodding stiffly. “Sinners.”

Beelzebub agreed, “A serious problem. Good work, Lord Hastur. Find the culprit, and we’ll tie him up in paperwork.”

“I was thinking acid,” Hastur said with a shrug. “But if it pleases your disgrace.” He bowed a little and turned to go. 

But just as the other two demons started to relax, he looked back.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked. “You’re both acting... off.”

“Ah…,” Dagon began, but Beelzebub gave him a look that said, _Not a word about that_. He tried again: “We were just…” He glanced at the drawer. “We were…”

“Snogging,” said Beelzebub, and looked immediately shocked at their own words.

“Snogging?”

“Snogging,” Beelzebub affirmed. “With the door closed. We do it all the time.”

Dagon’s face had by now turned several shades of pink in quick succession.

Hastur eyed them suspiciously, then shrugged. He tucked the folder under his arm. “Oh well, I knew you probably were. You’ll look into it though?”

“In a jiffy,” said Dagon.

“Thanks.” Hastur left, shaking his head in disgust and muttering. “Snogging. Of all the…”

The door fell shut. Beelzebub stared at it. Dagon stared at Beelzebub. 

“You didn’t tell him?”

“We’re not telling _anyone_ unless we have to, because if we do, _he’ll_ find out.”

Dagon knew who Beelzebub meant, and it wasn’t Hastur. “Right. The plan.”

“And if we spoil it, we’ll be spending centuries writhing in some dark corner of Hell—several corners if he’s being creative.”

“So what do we do?”

“We go to the museum,” said Beelzebub. “Obviously.”

* * *

 **C** ontrary to popular belief, space is quite warm in most places. It’s well insulated, with plenty of dark matter and warm burning star clusters to go around. The space between stars can take eons to cross, but only for creatures of a four-dimensional nature. With a little imagination, you can go anywhere. And when you’re an angel, distance and size don’t matter.

Especially in dreams.

“Stunning,” said Aziraphale. He gave Crowley a lingering smile, but the once-architect had eyes only for his work. Leonardo knew his pigments, no doubt—but he’d never tried painting in shades of ions.

“It’s the hydrogen that does it,” Crowley explained. “The red, I mean. Oxygen puts those green bits there. Galilleo had the nerve to say he’d discovered it.”

“He always did think the world revolved around more than the sun,” said Aziraphale primly, just so Crowley would fall back and laugh.

They were lounging on a comet. Since it was a dream, there was tea. Aziraphale passed Crowley a cup as the demon righted himself.

“You say making it visible from earth was your idea?”

“I was thinking back then,” Crowley said; “I had this idea, see, that if the birds ever flew better they’d have a target. Now I suppose it’s the humans. Be nice if they’d come appreciate it. Up close.”

“Billions of them. Billions of stars. How many teams were there?”

“Thousands at least, designers and chemist and hangers. I had scores of blueprints drawn up in an hour—never ran out of ideas. Didn’t occur to me I ever would.”

There was a pregnant pause until Aziraphale asked, “Did you?”

“No.” Crowley shrugged. He set down his china. It rattled a little. “Had a thought of an oxidized blue silk one, second century down in the Pit. Funny that. I just sort of assumed it wasn’t me. Lowly angel. Thought the Creator was working through me, through all of us.” He got quiet for a bit. 

Aziraphale refilled their tea and they watched the stars drift. The Orion Nebula really was beautiful, all layers like veils, twinkling with newborn stars. Aside from the roar of radiation coasting through space on every side, it was serene.

Something flashed and so did Crowley’s snake grin. He leaned forward and shot out a thin finger at the end of a lanky arm: “There—brown dwarf star. Happy birthday!” He raised his teacup in a kind of toast, then sat back on one elbow, beaming with satisfaction.

At length, he looked up and saw Aziraphale’s cup was midway to his lips and hanging there. His eyes had gone liquid gold, a sure sign he was lost in thought.

Aziraphale said, “What do you think they meant, at the gift shop?”

“What about?”

“Where are they going to get any imagination?”

Crowley’s mouth twitched downward. “We don’t have to worry about that, angel,” he said. He broke protocol to pour himself a cup. “They don’t have any.”

Aziraphale’s pale eyebrows rose and his mouth curled into an exaggerated frown of disapproval. Smiling charmingly, Crowley snapped his fingers and turned the whole set of Royal Doulton into a tasteful bourbon service. (It was after five in any million somewheres, after all.) 

* * *

**L** ater in the predawn gray, Crowley woke nestled in the soft scent of feathers amid ash-colored blankets. He was too at peace to move; but, like a certain princess, a niggling thing kept him from sleep: a kernel of worry where worry was due.

Where _would_ they get any imagination?

“Hey, angel,” he whispered at last. “Angel?”

He teased Aziraphale’s curls until the angel sighed a sleepy, “Mm?”

“Why don’t we visit Adam sometime?”

“A trip to the country?” Aziraphale shimmied deeper into the blankets. “How lovely. I do miss Mrs. Young’s cooking...”

Crowley smiled. “That so?”

“She promised the recipe to her apple tart if we came again.”

“Settled then?”

“Mm.”

Crowley sighed as well and let his eyes fall closed. He felt Aziraphale’s fingers brush his arm.

The angel said, “But next weekend, I’m taking up painting again.”

“Oh? Oh.” Crowley laughed. “What, uh, topic then?”

Aziraphale still didn’t open his eyes. Crowley wondered if he’d dozed off; but then he yawned and turned over, dragging Crowley’s arm (and the rest of him) across him like a blanket. “The stars.”

Crowley fell back asleep smiling.

And meanwhile, reflecting back nothing but a million universes inside a lead safe, the Philosopher’s Stone also slept peacefully, waiting on a prayer.


	5. Chapter the Fifth - Looking Backward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I’ve taken it upon myself to tell people to be a bit nicer.”  
>  “You… what?” Crawly was too overcome by admiration to blurt out how stupid the idea was.  
> “But I’m afraid, well…, I’ve been told by several dozen people within the hour to… to…” The angel’s voice dropped, “…to bmmffr nff.”  
> “What was that, angel?”  
> “To b-b-bug—r off.” The angel blushed from his ears to his toes. “But I’m not about to give up.”  
> _Angel, angel, if all Heaven were like you I’d miss the place. __

* * *

**I** t is the reliable fact that angels and demons have no biological sex, not without making an effort. Being supernatural beings, they present as male or female or otherwise, as each job requires. The demon, then still called Crawly, had never seen any reason to play favorites, so this time around he was a woman. A well-dressed woman, of course. Even as an angel, he’d been known for his style.

He’d been in the temptation business for two thousand years by now. The world was still young, but you learned quickly when you set your mind to it—and when you hated going home. 

Once, Hell had even invited him to lead a seminar about the “Seven Deadly Sins.” He’d had the outline heavily footnoted. Humans were far too inventive to limit sins to seven.

For example, that century B.C., humans had invented state capitalism, albeit without the fancy name. Those days, they just called it _robbery_.

Crawly was three weeks into his assignment. He sat by a well in a market place, the aesthetic sort of well that had at least one stone crumbling out of place to show how old it was. He wore mourner’s black and a veil. If you were rich here, no one bothered you, so he’d made it silk. The last thing he wanted was to be bothered, the second-to-last was to be poorly dressed.

He felt sick.

It took a lot to make Crawly feel sick. Downstairs must be having a joke, he thought. Beelzebub probably. His Disgrace probably thought he was getting too chummy with Horns. Couldn’t be helped. But Crawly had been sent to Sodom to tempt people to evil and found the work already done. The Lord of the Flies must be having a laugh by now.

Crawly was disappointed. Both demons and angels take pride in their work. They chart success in quarterly reports and have meetings on synergy. _[Author’s note: Hell’s retirement plan is bullocks though.]_ But more than that, Crawly wouldn’t have been more nauseous if he’d found himself in a Utopia where birds spoke in riddles and children sang proverbs in perfect verse.

He wrung his fingers until his knuckles hurt.

 _Just have to lie_ , he thought. _Not like they’ll notice: “Hey guys, temptation accomplished. Don’t thank me…”_

_Please don’t._

“Crawly?”

No one in this city knew his name.

“Crawly, is that you?”

No one topside really, not around here.

“It _is_ you! By Heavens, I should have known!”

At this point, Crawly realized someone was speaking to him. Someone who managed to sound oh-so-proper and yet embarrassed at the same time. 

Looking up, Crawly found a round open face looking down on him. The wide eyes were shading green with concern under a halo of downy white curls. 

The wings were hidden, but you always knew an angel. They had a certain _feel_ about them. Most days Crawly would avoid them like a plague (even if they weren’t bringing one), but this angel was different, like he was. 

“Aziraphale?”

* * *

 **B** _ack up one hour before the well, before Crawly looked up and saw his angel there. Here come two archangels, freshly fed by Abraham’s flocks and grain. They’re talking about the best way to cook veal. Their clothes are fine, but not too fine to pay for supper._

_They are followed, conspicuously so, by a red aurora._

Angels and aurora alike stopped at the edge of a vast, fertile plain where flocks grazed by clear waters tended by well-groomed men. Great cities rose against the horizon, five of them, and the largest was covered in gold.

The Three studied the Five, especially the capital, Sodom, gleaming in the sunset. 

“They have been busy,” said Sandalphon happily. “Shall we call down Uriel?” 

Gabriel nodded, and pulled out some chalk fresh from the Deluge. Meanwhile Sandalphon dusted off a flat bit of stone fallen off the nearby mountains. Gabriel carefully removed small clay lamps from a pocket and made a ring.

The chalk scraped the stone with steady, measured lines. In the space of half an hour, they had drawn something that looked like an astronomer’s wheel. It was a map, labeled with both cities and stars, all in Enochian. The letters weren’t exactly what you might call two-dimensional; they changed shape depending how you looked at them.

Gabriel pocketed the chalk and lit each lampwick with a flick of his finger. Then he waved at the sky.

The flames of the lamps blazed white as snow and the etched lines shone equally bright.

Part of the aurora twisted sentiently, then dove like red lightning. A moment later, Uriel stood up at the circle’s center. She dusted stardust from her clothes.

Sandalphon couldn’t help himself—he applauded.

Gabriel said, “Well then…”

The column blazed again and Uriel hopped from the ring. This light was a sharp, lightning-blue. Its entrant did not land so much as tumble.

It said, “Oof.”

Uriel glowered. 

“What,” she said, “are you doing here?”

“I’m dreadfully sorry,” said Aziraphale, former angel of the Eastern Gate. “I didn’t mean to intrude more than a moment…”

“Aziraphale,” said Gabriel, “Michael told you to be searching for a principal state…”

“Oh, I know—and I was—and I did—but then I noticed, well, someone had already taken this place off the map. And you had only just left the door open…”

“Aziraphale, this is strictly archangel business,” said Gabriel reproachfully.

The principality-to-be flinched like he’d been sunburned. “It’s also, well… Someone said you were about to test out the brimstone….”

Gabriel’s face suddenly broke into a smile. “I understand perfectly. You must be very excited,” he said. “I know I am.”

“Gabriel…,” Uriel began.

Aziraphale said, “It’s just, well… Raphael’s still treating patients from the last test run.”

“We’ve had plenty of test runs.”

“And he’s treating all of those patients too. Oh dear…” Aziraphale fought the need to twiddle his thumbs to keep his mind from spinning. 

“Care to watch?” Gabriel asked.

 _Archangels_ never twiddled. Finally Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back and said, “But about the cities…”

“Not to worry, Aziraphale,” said Sandalphon, a few gold teeth gleaming in a smile. “It’s all for the test.”

“Cities?”

“ _Sinners_ ,” Gabriel corrected. “Sinners—who _deserve_ it.”

“Oh, but aren’t there… protocols? Signs? Omens? Prophets and warnings?”

Gabriel laughed. “ _Pfffft_. Finished weeks ago…”

“But the scribes mentioned Abraham has a nephew there.” 

“Do we look like a bunch of dim scribes?” laughed Sandalphon (who had once been a scribe). 

Gabriel said, “We know about that.”

“But, I mean, with such a large place, there’s sure to be the requisite ten persons to avoid damnation.”

“You know about that?” asked Uriel.

“I read the report,” said Aziraphale.

For an instant, Gabriel and Sandalphon both twitched. No one read the reports. Aziraphale was looking out at the city and didn’t notice. 

Quickly, Gabriel draped an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Silly me, I forgot, Aziraphale, you like to read, don’t you?”

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale said, “I…”

“What do _you_ think of damnation?”

“Dam… oh dear. Well, I was reading a terrible—I mean, a terribly interesting—book the other day in the library about that new policy, and…”

“Damnation is one of my favorite topics,” Gabriel warmed to him. “So, we have about…” 

Uriel mouthed him a few words.

“… _five hours_ before doomsday, and you have just brought up one of my chief concerns.”

“I have?”

“Yes. That’s what I like about you, Aziraphale: You’re always willing to help. I think we’re shy about, oh, two righteous persons. Just two. And then we could call this whole thing off.”

“That would be wonderful.”

“But we’re cutting it really close. Can’t have evil breeding like maggots in the sun.”

“Er… um, I understand it breeds just about everywhere.”

“But we’re angels.”

“Right.”

“We don’t just destroy people who aren’t evil.”

“Of course not.”

“So why don’t you help us?” 

In a few thousand years, Aziraphale would be less gullible. Today, the archangels had the advantage. “Of course.”

“Wonderful.”

“There’s certain to be someone.”

“Just the right amount,” Gabriel agreed. “So Sandalphon and I will get Lot and his brood. Four or six, I think it was.”

“Or…?”

“Inlaws make it tricky. I’m sure it’ll be fine. Uriel will warm up the brimstone, just in case, and we’ll meet back here safe and sound in those five hours?”

“Only five?”

“Five is nothing to an angel, is it? You could probably sense a righteous soul a thousand cubits away.”

“That’s very kind of you…”

“And remember, if things get hairy, the circle’s the only way out. Wouldn’t want to send you to Raphael in pieces.”

Gabriel laughed heartily. Aziraphale managed a timid chuckle.

“Yes, er, is that problematic?”

“Not for the angel of healing. Pretty sure we’d perish without him.” Gabriel oozed cheer. 

“Best to get a move on,” added Sandalphon.

Aziraphale’s eyes were flickering silver with apprehension, but he said, “Of course,” again, and set out with them as Uriel shot back up into the sky. The clouds roiled and turned foreboding shades of cinnamon and tumeric.

Below, the circle gleamed like quiescent lightning, waiting.

Aziraphale parted ways with Sandalphon and Gabriel at the gate. The two archangels approached a man sitting in the elder’s court. Word had it among the scribes, he was the most righteous man in Sodom.

The comparison was not saying much.

* * *

 **T** hree hours later, Aziraphale had found Crawly.

“I’m undercover,” he said (a bit loudly). “You too?”

“No, I just dress like this on my day off,” said Crawly.

“Really? It’s a nice look on you.”

It was, but that was beside the point. Crawly said, “What do you mean? ‘You should’ve known’ _what_?”

Aziraphale’s smile gained ground. His eyes cooled to blue. “Well, it all makes sense _now_.” he said. “No one to blame after all.”

“For what?”

“This is your fault, isn’t it?” He sounded positively merry. 

“What is?”

“Don’t play coy. Hell’s hand again, are we?”

 _Coy?_ Crawly couldn’t help it. The idea amused him. “Are _we_ , angel?” he asked.

The question deflated the angel’s airs and he stammered, then grew petulant: “We—that is, _my compatriots and I in the battle for all things good_ —”

Crawly nodded patiently.

“—we are… getting the lay of the land.”

Crawly felt a sudden, incongruous flutter of hope (not his usual reaction to angels, at least outside of Aziraphale). “Going to damn the place then?”

“What? No. No, what a _nasty_ word. Don’t be ridiculous,” said his angel. “I have been assured by Gabriel himself that there is still time for a… _a preliminary inspection_.”

Crawly had smiled at the word “nasty.” “Only ‘inspecting’ for damnation?”

“Ye—no. _No_.” Aziraphale’s mouth knotted into a pout. “Now that I know Hell’s involved, it’s clear we should call the whole thing off.”

“It’s not me. I’m as flabbergasted as you are.”

Aziraphale looked left, then right. He twiddled his thumbs. He noticed his own twiddling and quickly tucked his hands into his robes like he’d been caught doing something wrong. 

“Say what you like, but you’re not going to delay me, you wily serpent.”

“Surely you can come up with a better insult for me than that. I like snakes.” Crawly grinned.

Aziraphale strode purposefully off. Crawly called after him:

“And ‘wily’ is a compliment.”

He sighed wistfully. The game was always fun. It didn’t have a name yet, but he looked forward to it. Looked forward to more if those angels did their job right. He eyed the red band of light dancing in the sky. 

Suddenly Aziraphale was back. He plopped down right next to him.

“If you _must_ know,” he said, wiggling close, “we’ve had a prayer from Abraham. His nephew Lot lives here, so he’s a bit worried.”

“The Almighty’s getting ‘tetchy’?”

“Tetchy? Try furious.”

A short existential crisis at feeling the same way as the Enemy made Crawly twitch. He said, “You think there’s any reason not to be?”

A smile pulled at Aziraphale’s mouth and he tamped it down. “Don’t tell anyone, but,” he whispered, “I’ve been trying to help the humans of Sodom.”

Crisis averted? Crawly asked, “How so?”

“I’ve taken it upon myself to tell people to be a bit nicer.”

“You… what?” Crawly was too overcome by admiration to blurt out how stupid the idea was.

“But I’m afraid, well…, I’ve been told by several dozen people within the hour to… to…” The angel’s voice dropped, “…to bmmffr nff.”

“What was that, angel?”

“To b-b-bug—r off.” The angel blushed from his ears to his toes. “But I’m not about to give up.”

 _Angel, angel, if all Heaven were like you I’d miss the place._ Aloud Crawly said, “So you’re all here to turn them around?”

“Oh no. Too many. Gabriel and Sandalphon are leading the, er, search—for Lot, that is. My job is to find the rest of the ten necessary to avoid, um, well that nasty word we just talked about.”

 _That_ was interesting.

“Who decides it’s ten? Is that a lucky number?”

“It’s policy, I guess.”

“Ah, well, in that case, it’ll turn out fine.”

“Thank you for your confidence. It means the world, it does.”

_[Author’s note: It would take Aziraphale another four thousand years to catch on to sarcasm.]_

Crawly said, “This Lot and his family. Less than ten?”

“Um, yes.” Aziraphale realized he was stuttering and sat up straighter. “If I can find just two more. I’d be happy to find one…”

“Angel, I’ve had weeks. Nearly starved. You’re not going to find any. Take it from an expert on original sin. When do the fireworks start?”

“They _don’t_.” Aziraphale said. 

“You’re sure?”

“Somewhat sure. I only have one lead, really. About a very nice young woman…”

Crawly doubled over.

“Crawly? What is it?”

“Uh… Ngg…” Crawly shook his head. He felt sick again. He shrugged Aziraphale’s concerned hand from his arm with a snakelike hiss. The angel jerked back and blinked at him, shocked.

Crawly shut his eyes. He felt bad immediately. _[Author’s note: Well, worse than usual.]_

“Has something dreadful happened?”

Again, Crawly felt a hand on his arm. He didn’t shrug it off. He looked up, and saw Aziraphale’s wide eyes had polished to a worried green. 

“What happened?” asked the angel softly.

It struck Crawly that time and again there were things he and his angel could agree on. The things were even sometimes good. Nice even. It made him wish they were friends. 

Crawly’s breath stopped hissing through his teeth. 

Maybe they were friends.

“How long you’ got?”

Aziraphale checked the stars. “Two hours.”

“I’ll tell you in ten minutes.”

* * *

 **S** ome two weeks before angels crossed the threshold of the city gate, Benoni the shepherd arrived in Sodom. Benoni had sold his last lamb and, like so many other shepherds and third sons, had come to the largest of the Five Cities to seek his fortune. The metropolist was known the Old World over as the richest in the valley. The walls were plated with gold. 

The walls were also hung with the bones of prisoners whose crimes were not widely known to newcomers like Benoni.

The money-changers had been happy to trade Benoni his unmarked gold for the city’s coin. The clerk at the first booth stamped each piece with a seal.

“What’s that then?” asked Benoni, curious but trying to put on the airs of the Very Successful Businessman he wanted to be.

“Oh, a formality, just a formality,” said the clerk. “This way, they know your money came from my stall.”

“Very sensible,” said Benoni, though he wasn’t sure it was.

“You enjoy your stay in Sodom. We’re grateful for you… patronage.” The clerk smiled a toothy smile. There were several golden teeth in it.

All the more assured that he’d been right to seek his fortune here, Benoni strolled off into the crowd.

He was thinking of opening a weaver’s shop, so he found his way to the covered arcade where the textiles were piled high in stalls and spinners, weavers, and tailors were at work. 

“It’s a hundred to get a business permit,” said the oldest merchant on the street. He wore a red turban that seemed of his own design. “You’ll have to buy a notice at the money-changer’s down the street.”

“Oh bother,” said Benoni. “If I’d known that, I would have done it at the other place.”

The merchant smiled, or at least his mouth bent upward. 

_Probably feels guarded around foreigners_ , thought Benoni. _Well, who wouldn’t be?_

He strolled off down the street with as much confidence as he could muster. Everywhere signage advertised businesses—and the starting price of goods. There were charges for medicine, for marriages, for infrastructure. Even the bridges had a tax of a coin each, sometimes more, based on the length of the bridge. Benoni was five coins down by the time he arrived on the correct street. _It’s a good sign, isn’t it?_ he thought to himself. If everything wasn’t free, then everyone must be prospering.

But at the next money-changer’s booth, he had an unpleasant experience. It was on the same level, he fancified, as finding half a worm in an apple.

“I can’t take this coin,” the clerk explained. He wore gold stubs in his ears. There were at least ten each, a sure sign of success.

“It’s Sodom City’s gold,” Benoni pointed out, in what he hoped was his most polite voice.

“It’s _Uretz’s_ gold,” the clerk explained. “Smiling guy? Gold teeth? Yeah, I’m in a bit of a trade war with him at the moment. So I’m not changing his coin. But, if you like, there is another money-changer closer to Center City. You might trade for his coin. He’s neutral at the moment so I’ll keep my dignity and buy his coins from you.”

“Well, a man’s dignity is important.”

“You’re an understanding young man. Give it a try. The rules are the rules. They keep us rich.”

Benoni screwed his own smile on tighter. It was best not to burn bridges when you were new in town. His mother—ancestors rest her bones—had always said so. 

“Of course,” said Benoni. “I shall do so immediately.”

He forded the next small stream since it was shallow, but found there was a fee for that too.

“Water damage,” the sentry on duty explained, as Benoni counted out the coins carefully.

His next monetary experience (three bridges and eight coins after) was worse than the previous one. Like finding _no_ worm in an apple and being told there _had_ been one. 

The clerk wore a belt with long tassels, each strung with gold coins with holes punched in. He jangled as he leaned over the counter.

“Sorry, I can’t trade that much in one go. You’ll have to go further in.”

“Oh, my. I mean, of course…”

“But there’ll be a fee for the change, since it’s not strictly necessary, you see.”

“I was told it was necessary,” said Benoni, again doing his best to be oh-so-very-courteous. “Due to a trade war.”

“Oh, the trade wars. Not my problem, I’m afraid. I stand on the rules. We can’t have us all compromising. ’Ould start falling like… well, I don’t know, like things that fall one after the other.”

“Leaves?” suggested Benoni.

“No, like a chain reaction. I dunno. Cards?”

“No.”

The two men stood a moment in thought but gave up. No mortal had the centuries to await the invention of dominos.

At last, the clerk shrugged. “Well, anyway, you should get going. It’s nearly dark, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. And I haven’t found a place to stay yet.”

“Priorities, milord. Happy travels.”

Benoni traded the pitiful amount of money. Still, now he had coins with two different stamps. Surely not every clerk could be against every other, not with a city this rich.

He headed for a public district that promised eating houses and hostels. He tried to cheer himself by looking at the tapestries, awnings, and curtains along every street. A weaver could come up with a thousand ideas here. Maybe even a thousand-thousand. It boggled the mind to think one might lose count.

His next experience wasn’t good enough to involve apples at all. 

“You mean you can’t change them either?”

“I can change the first amount, for a fee.”

“Are you in a trade war with Uretz as well?” Benoni asked, trying to sound interested and not annoyed. 

“Afraid so. Started this morning. It’s the fish.”

“The fish?”

The clerk waves his hands dismissively. They sparkled with rings. “Oh, it’s not important. Now, I can trade what Aven’s left you with, but there’ll be a fee for it being after hours.”

“Is it after hours?”

“Just now. Sun’s setting.”

“Oh dear. But how will I know if I can afford a place to sleep?”

“I’ll tell you what,” said the man, leaning forward on the counter. He looked left, then right. Benoni, wondering if rules were about to be broken, leaned in, hoping for some helpful conspiracy.

“I can’t take your money, but that’s a nice belt you’re wearing. Let’s say you make it collateral and keep some coin for yourself. When you have enough, you come back and buy it, say with a bit of usury?”

“Usury?”

“Incentive, just to make sure I’m not swindled.”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

By now, Benoni was terribly hungry. He managed to buy porridge at a small eating house, though it cost him three of Aven’s coins. The hostel had two kinds of rooms. There were private rooms that were a bit too pricey for him, and there was talk the beds were murder anyway. The others were in a foul smelling basement where day labourers sat propped up against walls (and one another) to make space. 

Still, it was better than nothing.

“How about this,” said the clerk at the desk. He was very well-dressed. “You leave those sandals here for the night and pay me back tomorrow evening.”

Benoni tried out the new word. “You mean, as ‘collateral’?”

“Yes, that. You’re practically one of us already.” The well-dressed clerk smiled.

He should have known. He really should have. It was better the room than the square, but he didn’t know that. Not yet. There might have been just enough time to walk back down every street and go out those golden gates. But Benoni had one flaw besides being a shepherd lacking sheep: He was far too trusting.

That morning he bumped into a dark figure on the street and turned immediately, a hand gripping his purse, thinking of sneak-thieves.

“Sorry,” said the other. “Keep left, you know.”

“Oh. I’m new in town.”

“That right?” asked the other. It was a woman, he was sure of it, but was more distracted by the eyes: He’d never seen anyone with gold eyes before. The woman said, “Might be better for you if you leave before you get too used to it.”

And then the stranger strode away, weaving through the early morning crowd, hips swaying like the undulations of a desert snake.

Benoni frowned. He considered taking the advice. But his purse was intact, he had a goal and a pair of shoes to redeem, and so he pressed onward instead.

A week passed, and by the end of it he had lost not only his sandals but his belt to the interest payments that piled up day after day. He’d collected—and yet could not spend—seventy different kinds of coinage and now possessed only a few of each. He tried to recall which traders had said which others were their trade partners, but even when he was certain he’d gotten it right, there’d be another trade war. Benoni soon forgot about his hopes for a textile business. He only hoped to find a place that sold bread for less than a full gold coin.

“This flour’s imported, all the food is,” said a baker when he’d tried to complain. “We can’t give handouts here. Do that and the next thing you know we’ll all starve. Are you trying to ruin our economy? Typical foreigner. _You don’t work, you don’t eat_.”

Benoni tried to find work, but no one would hire a man with no shoes. He’d lost his coat somewhere along the way, bargaining for a place to stay, and for some reason no one’s directions got him anywhere back towards the gate. One man assured him he wouldn’t be allowed to leave.

“Not with debts on your ledger. They publish debts to all the lenders, you know.”

“But surely, there’s some help for those finding their feet.”

“You’re a grown man. Your feet are at the end of your legs. What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is yours. Now isn’t that fair?”

When you put it that way, it _sounded_ fair.

The market squares seemed at first inviting, but night after night he heard shouting from some quarter of the city or another. Shouting, and the stomp of soldiers’ boots—and then a very sudden, worrying silence. He tried for the alleyways instead, and found himself most nights crouching in garbage—or worse—that was thrown from the windows.

Thirteen days later, Benoni sat by a well, staring down at the water. It was too far down to reach. There was only a rope for lowering pitchers by their handles. He wondered if it wouldn’t be better to jump in. 

He knew from his reflection that he resembled the other ragged men and children who sat around this square. Few women. He tried to think why women wouldn’t end up on the street as much, but none of the possibilities were reassuring.

Today, across the little square, one man had braced a badly spelled sign in front of his bare legs: _Will work for food._

Benoni dragged his steps over and pulled a handful of coins from his pocket.

“You can have these.”

The man looked at them, then at Benoni, then he laughed. It was a sad, hollow sound. The man reached into his own pocket and showed a handful of his own gold.

Benoni recognized the stamp of Uretz on a few of them, the holes from Aven in some others.

A horrible truth began to sink in. He had no words for it yet, but it felt like eating an apple and then learning it’d been poisoned with a slow-working toxin. At least a worm was natural. This whole city seemed a fabrication, something from a nightmare, and it was rigged against him.

Benoni slouched back towards the well, then dropped down beside it. Every bit of him felt broken. And the sun was setting again. 

“M’lord, are you alright?”

The clerks had stopped calling him ‘milord’ when he’d run out of extra clothes to trade.

Benoni looked up. Something sparkled and caught his eye. A gold ring. 

A woman was standing at the well with her clay pitcher on one shoulder, looking down at him. Her clothes were embroidered with golden thread. She was young, and, despite the ring on her third finger, by her headdress she was unmarried.

“Oh, um, no, miss,” said Benoni, and looked away because women made him feel flustered.

“You’re new in town? I don’t normally see you at this well.”

“Oh, yes. My name is Benoni. Son of Oni. It’s rather funny really. _Benoni Ben’oni_ , right?”

She smiled. “A little.”

He felt suddenly better. He’d been wanting to tell someone his name for days. He was about to ask hers when a clatter of armor interrupted. Spears bristling, half dozen soldiers spilled from an alley. Their armor gleamed in the failing daylight: even the spear heads were plated with gold.

The maid stiffened and nearly dropped her pitcher. Benoni stood to catch it. 

“Are they here for me?” they both said at once.

They weren’t. Two soldiers grabbed the man sitting with the crude placard and hoisted him to his feet.

“You’re under arrest,” they said. “No begging. _You don’t work, you don’t eat_.”

“I’m trying to—”

“ _No goods without gold_.”

Further protests disappeared around the corner as he was dragged way.

It took less than a minute.

Benoni was shaking. He stared at the ownerless placard and its crude advertisement. He swallowed, then handed the pitcher to the woman. It felt a bit heavy, but he blamed the lack of food; he was getting weak.

“Sorry,” he said, not sure what for. For being a coward, he decided. 

“Not at all.” She looked left, then right, then fished something out of the jar. 

“Here, take it quick. Hide it in your clothes.”

Benoni stood stunned before looking down at the object she’d pressed into his hands. It was hard and thin like a plate, but it gave a little under his fingers. _Bread_ , he realized. 

“Sorry, no yeast. Can’t fit as many if it rises.”

She stepped away and with furtive looks down every alley, started passing out the hard wafers to the others. 

Benoni didn’t hide the bread. He ate quickly. He practically inhaled. It was bland and hard but even an apple wouldn’t taste sweeter now, he thought.

“Please don’t tell anyone. It’s illegal.”

“What, feeding…?”

“Goods without gold. ‘What’s mine is mine’—all that. It’s against the law. Please.”

She hurried back to the well to draw her water. Benoni watched in shock. Her hands were shaking, the gold ring catching the light. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow, if I can. I can’t always go to the same places…”

“What’s your name?”

“Oh.” She looked worried but said, “Ribah,” and then hurried away.

Benoni hoped that night would pass more peacefully. Tomorrow, he thought, he might be strong enough to volunteer for work, or at least to find shoes. Someone needed a labourer, surely. He tried not to think of the screams each night from the marketplaces. 

At midnight, however, he found out what they were. And why he should have known better than to think only street women disappeared. His useless gold coins were left scattered in the dust.

In the terrible silence that followed, something jingled. A man wearing long tassels of coins stepped from the shadows.

He said, “Well, Uretz?”

The toothy grin shone in the dark of the next street over. Uretz was followed by Aven, as well as the hostel clerk Tamuz and the clerk’s brother, the finely dressed Orlon.

“Yes, let’s see, let’s see,” said Uretz, kicking at the coins. He stooped and started to sort. “These are mine. These are yours, Aven. Orlon, these five are yours.”

Other clerks arrived, some seventy in all, most yawning, all with purses readily open. They sorted out the gold between them.

“Good for a fortnight’s work. We’re getting better at this.”

“Last one hung on for a month,” said Tamuz, twisting his rings thoughtfully. “And his clothes weren’t nearly so nice.”

Laughing, the businessmen bid one another goodnight and headed safely up the street, each under the escort of his hired guard. There were no civil soldiers in Sodom, of course. Only men for hire were worth their weight in gold.

* * *

 **“B** ut after?” Aziraphale held his breath. 

Crawly’s gold reptile eyes stared out at nothing ahead of him. “You don’t want to know, angel.”

“They killed him then?”

Crawly sighed and stood up. “This place turns even good people bad. It’s like brine. Everything pickles.”

“What do you mean?” asked Aziraphale, who rather liked pickles but tried not to let his thoughts wander. “You could be lying to me.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“Because I’m an angel and you’re a demon. You could be trying to corrupt m… that is, my report.”

Crawly had smiled at the word “corrupt,” but he shook his head. “You should be going though.” He pointed upwards.

Aziraphale looked up as a strange wind howled overhead like a trumpet. Against the darkening sky, the red aurora fluttered its warning.

Crawly asked, “You sure they said five hours?”

“Quite sure.”

“Mm.” Crawly turned suddenly and strode towards a busy street. Feeling anchorless, Aziraphale hurried after him.

“I need to know one thing.” 

“You should go. Investigation’s over.” Crawly slipped easily up the next street.

Aziraphale followed as the howling alarm sounded again. While he pushed and stumbled, Crawly wove through crowds with a swinging gait that believed straight lines happened to other people. At last the angel gave up all dignity, hitched up his robes, and jogged. 

He turned a corner, felt a wave of panic: He’d lost sight of Crawly. 

“Angel.”

He spun around. Crawly was lingering by an apple stand. The demon flipped a coin to the vendor and grabbed an apple. He waved Aziraphale into an alley and their strange chase continued.

At the southernmost gate, Crawly stopped and offered the fruit. “You look starved.”

“I really shouldn’t. That’s stolen.”

“It’s no one’s in a few hours. Why aren’t you leaving yet?”

“I have a report to make.” Without meaning to, Aziraphale thought about a Tree in a garden. “And… I suppose I should warn you, it’ll be fire this time.”

“I knew that ‘Rain Bow’ was a laugh.”

“It’s dangerous,” Aziraphale insisted. “I’ve seen tests.”

“Where d’they find fire enough for five cities?” 

“I… don’t know. Maybe in a shooting star, I don’t—Oh, I’m sorry.” He’d apologized for Crawly’s shock without knowing its source. 

Crawly recovered, “I thought we agreed angels can’t do anything wrong.”

Aziraphale blinked, startled. Another memory from the garden. Was this what it was like to have a friend? To share memories? 

But… Friendship? With a demon? Was he going mad? Aziraphale tried to push the thought away and didn’t quite manage. 

“I…” Aziraphale found his train of thought. “I want to know what happened to Ribah, Crawly. Please. For my mission. It’s important.”

“She’s gone too. What more is there…?”

“But it must _mean_ something.”

“Why should it? Did anyone stop it?” asked Crawly. “Any of yours?”

“I…”

“Go make it mean something. Punish them. It’s easy, right? Heaven can punish anyone without asking if they deserve it.”

“Would she want that?”

“How should I know what good people want? I’m a demon. I’m not good. I’m not even _nice_.”

“Crawly?”

“Don’t look at me to do it. We do the tempting. You do the smiting.”

“Please.”

Crawly twitched and fell silent. Aziraphale couldn’t put a finger on why, but it looked like the demon was having an inner argument. 

At last, the demon murmured, “It’s just out here,” and waved him towards the portico beyond the gate.

The howling wind shifted and Aziraphale was hit by a cloud of smoke. He coughed and threw a sleeve across his mouth as Crawly calmly pulled his widow’s veil further across his face. There were downsides to having a corporeal form. A sense of smell was often one of them. 

There was a lot of noise through the throttling smoke. Crows were cawing and men were in a heated argument. Just under the ruckus, he heard Crawly growl. The crows scattered and Aziraphale saw a knot of soldiers and merchants arguing over a pile of items: gold trinkets, fine jewelry, pottery, a loom… It looked like an entire house had been emptied. Among the linens and cloth was a fact Aziraphale tried not to see.

“What are they doing?”

“Haggling for their dues. As executioners.”

Mindful of the crows, Aziraphale stepped forward. He made himself look closer. He made himself see that all the clothes and the jewelry were the kind he’d seen on women in town.

Behind the hagglers was a pile of smoldering firewood the size of a small house. It must have once been higher, but was now halfway to ash. 

“A pyre,” he observed, his throat dry.

“Punishment for thieves.”

“I’d think it would be bigger.”

“Unlicensed thieves only.” It was a terrible joke. But true.

Aziraphale said, “There has to be something we can do.”

“‘We,’ Aziraphale? You and your compatriots?”

“No. We… I mean…”

“One thing maybe,” said Crawly. “Let it burn.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders stooped. “I don’t expect a demon to understand,” he said. “As long as people are alive, they could do something good. They could get better. Once they’re dead…”

“You really think the Almighty thinks like that?”

“ _I_ think like that.” Aziraphale turned on him with a snarl. Then he drew back, ducked his eyes, and so missed Crawly’s startled but appreciative smile. “I think that,” he repeated, quieter, but his voice hissed: “I’m not some demon crawling up from a crypt, so I think I’m not wrong.”

“Well, you can be right all on your own, angel,” said Crawly. “Let me be wrong, if it makes you feel better.”

The aurora was sinking and flickering fire. The wind rushed across the plains, now howling like a pack of wolves on the hunt. Something in the red above flashed sulfur yellow.

“That’ll be the fireworks,” said Crawly. “Nice knowing you, angel. It really was.”

“I’d best be heading for the north gate,” said Aziraphale. 

“The north…”

“Get a head start,” added Aziraphale, striding off. “I’m sure there’s plenty of time.”

“Should have been another hour at least,” said Crawly thoughtfully.

“I’ll be seeing you, I suppose.”

“Yeah…” 

Crawly eyed the red sky and frowned at a stewing in his stomach. He glanced after Aziraphale, a flash of white striding across the fields as sheep scattered. North? The northern mountains were too far to walk in an hour. Even at a frenzied run. Flying would be suicide if…

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. 

“Hey you, widow.”

Crawly swore and turned, his eyes flashing lizard gold. The soldier drew his hand back, but rallied, sure in his security and blaming the blur of the gossamer veil.

“There’s a fine for loitering on the steps, woman,” he said. “Four gold a minute.”

Crawly scowled, then sneered. His crow-black wings unfolded suddenly, arched, then beat down, scattering the smoke and sending pyre sparks into the eyes of the hagglers. The soldier staggered backwards and fell, his armor crashing and bruising him. Others of his sort sauntered forward from the gate, but Crawly drew up the veil and smiled at them, and it was not a nice smile.

He said, “You know”—He snapped his fingers, changing his clothes from silk to black linen. For the first time in days Crawly felt full of purpose—“you’re all going to die.”

The degregates stared, then shrunk, then cowered. With excellent theatrical timing the first flames exploded into meteorites overhead. Sulfuric rain fell, slow at first, then hard and clattering. Cries of confusion and pain and fear went up across the city.

A few soldiers winced and lowered their spears warily. Then a boulder from the sky smashed into the wall-walk. With the crack of a split mountain, the stone shattered and burned and the wall piled into a molten ruin. 

Crawley took a step forward and the soldiers and merchants all stumbled backwards. He arched his wings. With a cold smile, he scarred the burning air with menace. 

“It would be so much more fun for me if you all _ran_.”

* * *

 **T** he world was on fire, like a great writhing ocean of green and blue, yellow, and red. 

And still the rain came: acid that clung and stank and burned. Still the hail fell: great globes that cracked stone and skulls, alight with impossible fire. Still the sulfur fell in rags of flame, draping pasture and thatch in hungry yellow-green. Spring and river boiled and spoiled. The earth cracked and bled tar. Gaseous clouds choked the air. Rolling fire scarred the soil.

Gabriel and Sandalphon stood on their outcrop again while the glowing circle shone pure and clear. 

“Never send a principality to do an archangel’s job,” said Gabriel, satisfied. He clapped his hands together and rubbed his palms briskly. “Any sign of him?”

Sandalphon squinted. He conducted the rains like a blazing orchestra: Strings of screams here, now the drums of falling stones…

“I don’t think he’s coming,” he said.

“Good.” Gabriel’s concern vanished. “If he likes Raphael so much, it’s about time he paid him a visit. That’ll be a lesson.”

“You want him discorporated?” asked Sandalphon. He let his eyebrows lift as he cued the horn section of wind, drove the cascade of flames towards a clan of fleeing cattlemen. “What will we tell Michael?”

“He’s got potential, but that little footsoldier needs to learn his place.”

“But Aziraphale is practically a principality now.”

“It was an unexpected promotion.” Gabriel rocked impatiently on his heels. “All the more reason to teach him now, while we can help him.”

“You could just explain it to him.”

“Nah, he’s too simple,” said Gabriel. “Between my idea about the stamped coins and you teaching the solicitors wordplay, he might think we were the ones in the wrong, which is ridiculous.”

“We merely helped things along,” said Sandalphon knowingly.

“Exactly.”

“I suppose we should close the circle then.” 

“And I, for one, am not going to let you and Uriel have all the fun.” 

“What about the, er… humans?”

They’d left Lot and what was left of his family in a little cave behind them to do whatever mortals did in times like these. The girls were muttering something about alcohol.

“They’ll be fine. We saved their lives—I mean, mostly. Gotta be more careful about turning people into salt pillars. But it’s not like we didn’t warn them.”

“They should be grateful.” Sandalphon waved a hand and a few more salt pillars were left amid the ruin.

“We’ll come back later for Aziraphale, pick up the pieces,” said Gabriel. “You’ll see. It’ll do him good in the end, grow him some skin.”

“I still don’t remember one thing.”

“Oh?”

“About that woman.”

Gabriel laughed. “Right, her. Obviously: Feeding a starving demon. Pure evil.”

* * *

 **A** ziraphale felt like his nerves were peeled and raw. 

A boulder from the sky, all aflame had struck the golden walls of Sodom and the walltop exploded. Fire and ash fell in streams. Screams were cut off abruptly as the gates crashed in and every brick melted. Aziraphale knew mortals could die. He’d never seen it.

Aziraphale ran. He kept running, along with shepherds, hostlers, and servants. Nothing looked the same, not minute to minute, not with fire everywhere. Was he even still heading north?

His first instinct was to spread his wings for shelter, but a hailstone the size of his fist struck him in the shoulder. He staggered, and fell, and threw his hands over his head as he tumbled. 

The hail smashed into burning crops and panicking flocks: Ice mixed with impossible fire. Some globes landed burning in the soil, inches from his head and twice its size. The grass blackened and smouldered with yellow smoke. Each impact resounded like thunder.

Aziraphale dragged himself over the broken earth towards the wreckage of shepherd’s tents up the hill. He could smell the distinct odor of mutton now, overcooked. Charred. Mutton and bad eggs, and something else more horrible, like rotten pork.

“Gabriel!” 

He could barely hear his voice. Was there an answer? Fire crashed and blew the side off the hill. Aziraphale called again—for Gabriel, Sandalphon, even Uriel, though she unnerved him most days. Nothing was more horrible than this. How could they have left him? 

But they had warned him, hadn’t they? Stupid of him. It was his own fault that… 

_Crash!_ A tent went up in flames. The fire rolled outward, washed the fields with crackling heat. Aziraphale threw himself into a ditch and the wave singed his primaries. His cries of fear were lost in the din—like so many others were. He buried his head in his hands. His shoulder ached. He felt torn apart. He drew in his wings and cowered under them. 

How was this better? He fought anger, turned the wail into another prayer, reminded himself not to doubt. But how was this any better than letting the horrible people of the Five Cities ruin themselves? Again, he turned the confusion into a prayer. Maybe there would be an answer this time. One could always hope. It hurt so much not to know. 

Another mountain crashed down somewhere. Another inferno blazed. Another wound in the earth smoldered and bled black tar that caught fire and added to its fury. Still, Aziraphale couldn’t move, stuck in the ditch, tied up in terror and doubt.

What would it be like to die? There would be paperwork. Would there be pain? How much pain? How long would it take to come back? Would he be allowed? 

Another hill evaporated into a valley. 

He might lose his position as a principality, and he so very much wanted to help humans. But he couldn’t even change things here. He couldn’t even find a few good people. Had he missed something? If there had been a chance, if he’d missed something… If only…

A roar churned the air and a shadow swallowed the sky. Looking up, Aziraphale saw a sulfurous coal the size of a small mountain rolling down from the heavens. 

Falling towards him. 

Aziraphale cried out and clutched the ground, far from ready for the end.

He heard the explosion but never felt it.

“Aziraphale!”

Was he dead? His ears were ringing. Souls didn’t have ringing ears. He looked up.

The fire had passed, rolling on like a harvest burning. But there was still a shadow, a silhouette this time. Friendlier looking. It stretched out a hand. 

Aziraphale reached for it, tried to speak, hacked a choking cough. Gabriel? Or Uriel maybe, ready to chide him? But—

“Up you go, angel.”

Crawly pulled hard and lifted him out of the ditch.

“Don’t just stand there. Run.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say, so he ran. 

They ran.

Clutching Aziraphale’s hand tighter, Crawly wound their arms together. Aziraphale staggered. Crawly pulled him up. A hill exploded and they dove to one side. Another boulder rolled down from the heavens as the red aurora blazed its furious banner.

At a stony spar of foothills, Crawly threw them both against a rock face. He pressed both hands to the rock on either side of Aziraphale and spread his wings. They were crow’s wings. Aziraphale hadn’t forgotten. They defied the fire and stood coal black against the judging sky. And Aziraphale saw it this time—the fiery explosion of stone just before the great meteor hit, saw it bombard the whole world into pulp, and repel—harmlessly—off of Crawly’s wings.

The thunder of the blast rang in their ears. Crawly had to lean close, smiling a little madly in his relief. Aziraphale read rather than heard: “I figure I owe you one.”

The ringing started to fade. Aziraphale also made out: “I know a cave. Up here. Don’t look back.”

He led the way. Aziraphale followed. 

* * *

**I** t was like looking across an ocean of fire. The sky boiled with black-green clouds. The red band of northern lights was gone. The fiery rain had stopped, but the ruin would burn for hours yet, days maybe.

Crawly stood alone just inside the opening of the cave, slumped against one side. He rubbed one hand in the other. His face was smeared with ash. His clothes smelled of sulfur, but he was in one piece. 

They both were. 

Now and then his eyes flashed gold as he glanced back at Aziraphale. The angel sat hugging his knees in a corner, breathing shakily, shivering. His clothes were torn and his hair was mussed up to one side, but he didn’t seem to notice. Even his usual shine had smudged. He looked exhausted. 

“At least it’s over now,” Crawly added, feeling bad for his long silence.

“It’s not.”

Crawly gave him a confused frown.

“Can’t you hear it?” asked Aziraphale. 

Realization dawned on Crawly. Of course. Across the plains, audible only to the supernatural, he could hear the baying of the Hounds. Heaven had finished its work. Now Hell had its own. The Hellhounds were on the hunt, dragging the damned down to judgment. Crawly swallowed in a suddenly dry throat.

He forced a light tone for his angel. “Try not to think on it,” he said. “You did what you could.” He shuffled to the back of the cave and sat down. Aziraphale was shivering. “You cut it a bit close, angel.”

“I didn’t, I mean, I don’t think I did. It’s Upstairs,” Aziraphale explained: “Since the, er, the Deluge, that is… There must have been a mixup.”

“‘Deluge’?” Crawly suggested. He immediately regretted it. Aziraphale looked ready to hyperventilate. “What’s that have to do with this? Another apology in the sky?”

“No. A promotion. We’re shifting departments again.”

That was interesting. He tested the waters: “Another Fall I didn’t hear about?”

“I don’t know. I’m to be a principality.”

“I thought you were already a cherub.”

“Oh no, it’s been awhile. I… That is, I couldn’t deal with the stress.”

“Didn’t want them to find out you lost the sword did you?” Crawly grinned.

“ _No_ ,” said Aziraphale, but then looked apologetic. “Well, that’s a small relief, yes, but I put in for the position because… well, because I want to help them. The people.”

“Oh. Good for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Got a place in mind?”

“Not yet. I don’t mind a fixer-upper.” He was suddenly blinking back tears. “Make things better.”

 _Oh angel…_ Crawly swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “Renovations,” he said spiritedly. “Always enjoyed those. Not on such a small scale.”

“Oh, you were…?”

“Doesn’t really matter what I was…”

“Quite right.” Aziraphale looked regretful. “Sorry. Habit.”

“Nnh. I’m sure you’ll find something.” Crawly dug at a pocket in his clothes, pulled out something still whole despite the wreck. The apple from the market.

“Ownerless now,” he remarked setting it down between them. “Hungry?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“You’ve got a body, same as me. It could die if you don’t eat.”

“I… I don’t think I can.”

Crawly rubbed his hand again. Aziraphale’s eyes kept traveling to the flames outside. It hurt to watch. Crawly tried to think of some distraction.

He said, “I thought it would hurt.”

“What would?”

“Holding hands with an angel.”

Aziraphale perked up. “So did I. With a demon, that is.”

“Like it might turn one of us to stone?”

“Or burn like fire.”

“Exactly.”

There was another pause, but this time, Aziraphale did not look outside.

He said, “I don’t really talk to the other angels like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like… this. About this.”

“Damnation?”

“No. Questions. Apples. Unicorns. The color of your wings.”

“Did we talk about those?”

Aziraphale picked up the apple and turned it, testing the firmness of its skin with his fingers. He looked suddenly shy. “I mean, mine are frightfully boring.”

“Swan white looks good on you.”

“But yours, they’re…?”

“Crows’ wings.”

“Crows.” Aziraphale smiled shyly. “Yes. Clever birds. I still remember on the ark, you always got on better with the ravens too….”

“I like black birds. Crows, ravens, cormorants, and starlings…”

There was a beat of distant crackling flames.

Crawly said, “I’m sorry, angel.”

“No. You’ve saved my life, Crowly—I mean, Crawly. Sorry. I’m too exhausted to think.”

“You should probably rest. Find your way home when the ground is less pyrotechnic.”

“I… shouldn’t.”

“What?”

“I mean, in this small space…”

Crawly caught on. “Oh, no, I’m not the least bit tired. You go on.”

Aziraphale looked uncertain. 

Crawly sauntered back over to the mouth of the cave. “I’ll keep a lookout anyway. You go ahead. Nothing you’d want to see in a demon’s dreams.”

“Of course not.”

“We’re too different. Nightmare that’d be.”

“Certainly.”

Crawly stuck a long hand out experimentally, the way some mortals checked for rain. Yellow crumbs of combusted brimstone rolled across his fingers.

“Practically the same with a new color on,” he murmured. He knew atoms. He’d built stars. But he said nothing to Aziraphale, unsure what it all meant. 

Without meaning to, sometime around dawn, he dozed off. When he woke Aziraphale was gone, and an apple core sat at the mouth of the cave. Crawly smiled a little.

As he reached for it, he remembered a dream. It was the nicest he’d had in awhile. 

There’d been a garden.

* * *

> _Behold, this was the iniquity of thy sister Sodom, pride, fullness of bread, and abundance of idleness was in her and in her daughters, neither did she strengthen the hand of the poor and needy._   
> —Ezekiel 16:49 (KJV)

> _If a poor man happened to come [to Sodom], every resident gave him a_ denar _, upon which he wrote his name, but no bread was given him. When he died, each came and took back his._  
>  —Tractate Sanhedrin, folio 109b, "Babylonian Talmud"


	6. Chapter the Sixth - Moving Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The stereotype of “greedy tyrant” is not without inspiration. The trouble is, when you chase after everything, someone eventually comes after you. You can have it all and can lose everything all the more easily. No amount of caution can protect you forever. And so Esteban Suero, so-called president of the heretofore unrecognized Democracy of Sol Este, was dead._
> 
> _Not that Gabriel was to blame. He had only mentioned it was a nice day for lunch on the veranda._   
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Content Warnings:** So, since this chapter involves things going bad the world over, there’s going to be references to stuff that is actually bad the world over. If I allude or give aliases to certain events/people/things without naming them, it’s because I’m hoping beyond high hope that in a few years they really will be fiction.

* * *

**T** hat night, the Prince of Hell and their secretary walked up the steps of the National Gallery. The two demons let their auras swell like slick smoke through Trafalgar Square. It didn’t kill anyone; it just put them all in a bad mood. 

At the museum’s entrance, Beelzebub reminded the guard on duty that he was wasting the best years of his life here. Immediately, he dropped his keys forgotten, on the stone steps and went home to waste his life on something else.

Next were the custodians. One was idly thinking of joining the strike next week. Unnoticed, Beelzebub skirted a wet floor sign and, with a passing touch on her shoulder, reminded her how much trouble it would be to come to work and then not work—and then to have her name written down besides. She could call in sick. That would support the Union, wouldn’t it? With no more trouble than deciding what to stream on Netflix.

A second custodian, less fervent for change, decided nothing in Pigott Education Center needed cleaning, no, but the shadows were good for a nap.

The only other personnel were two guards in a back office watching the cameras. Beelzebub was only three galleries away when Officer Arnold Faste decided he could have died for a smoke and stepped out. Dagon recognized him from hell’s rosters, and, because neither demon could resist the irony, an instant later the man simply died.

Beelzebub was an expert on Sloth, which might surprise people who don’t understand paperwork. In many ways, paperwork makes people more efficient. However, while many proverbs rebuke the “sluggard,” Sloth is all about inertia. The slug is well and good as a comparison sometimes, but Sloth can be as industrious as an ant when it wants to be. “I’m busy; ask someone else,” is as good an excuse as, “Not my problem.”

But Beelzebub was having trouble with the last soul in the building. 

Officer Denna Coleman was tending a kettle. _Diligently_. 

The Prince of Hell had sent ahead a temptation to a long bathroom break, followed by one for a short nap out of view. They’d urged her to check her text messages as a last resort, but the officer had put her phone in her locker, even powered it off, in keeping with company protocols. 

Now Beelzebub cursed. (It made the hallway’s paint peel.) _Discipline_ . Of all the flaws of religion—and there are many—discipline was one they had to reckon with. Some humans thought discipline meant scathing punishments and mindless repetition, but that wasn’t discipline—that was _conditioning_. Demons loved conditioning. It saved them a lot of effort later on. 

No. Diligent, constant, mindful discipline was a _nightmare_ . It’s not that Heaven actually cares about what people eat or how many times they say “Amen.” It’s the principle of the thing: Saying _yes_ to a hundred _small_ good things a day—and saying _no_ to a hundred bad ones—that builds muscle and increases stamina for the _big_ things.

Discipline downright annoys demons.

Another wall’s paint peeled.

“We’ll have to be more direct,” said Dagon. Beelzebub nodded and opened the office door.

They endured a few useless gunshots: Once the pistol was empty, the Lord of the Flies stepped forward and brushed off the bullets. Despite the cramped quarters of the shadowy guard room, they _loomed_. 

Denna dropped the pistol and her eyes went wide.

Demons have many shapes. They even have “favorite” shapes; but to say any one shape is their “true” form is to miss the point of being a multidimensional being. Suffice it to say that now Beelzebub turned into something terrifying beyond belief _[Author’s note: because even atheists need terrifying]_ , and spoke through multitudinous mouths of bloodied teeth:

“PUT THAT AWAY BEFORE YOU HURT YOURSELF.”

Denna Coleman fainted. 

Dagon smiled broadly. “I do love it when you do that,” he said.

Beelzebub, comfortably compact again, twitched an uncommitted smile. “I’ve missed it, really.”

“Should we kill her?” asked Dagon more seriously.

“There’s no sense sending a soul to the afterlife so well-polished,” Beelzebub replied. They sat down in the nearest office chair. It was a very comfortable chair, and they didn’t fight the urge to tap a foot on the linoleum and swivel a bit right, then left. It’s a side effect of this furniture’s existence.

They nodded to the mess of hardware in front of them: Twenty screens marked by timestamps glowed blue against the office half-light.

“Can you make it tell us what we want, Dagon?”

Dagon cracked his knuckles and stepped up to the bluish light. “I took a class once.”

“Oh?” Beelzebub eyed the nearby tea tray and couldn’t help but notice the milk in the teacups already. They caught the scent of Earl Grey and helped themselves. 

“From Crowley,” Dagon explained.

“I do like irony.”

“So do I, my prince.” 

He set to work, sliding switches, turning knobs, and watching timestamps run backwards. He took in details from all twenty screens with hardly a thought, but still managed a glance at the prince swaying in the chair. 

“Speaking of which,” Dagon added more lightly, “do you suppose the angels have started yet?”

“It’s Sunday somewhere by now.” Beelzebub reached for a biscuit. “After six thousand years? They won’t be able to help themselves.”

* * *

“ **D** o you think the demons have started yet?” asked Uriel.

Gabriel chuckled. “In six thousand years, when have they stopped?”

Auxiliary staff hurried away from the observation deck at dawn. They didn’t question the orders of archangels. No one did. In the empty space, the solitary globe turned slowly as the archangels approached. Across from it, the Torch on its pillar flickered gold before the temples of the world.

That morning, Michael didn’t look at them. He pulled the hem of his jacket and checked his hair unconsciously. It was a habit Gabriel recognized. Michael preened when he was out of sorts. 

_Another bad night?_

“So, who was Prometheus?” Gabriel asked. “Doesn’t sound like an angel.”.

“It’s not,” said Uriel. “Just a story about fire stolen from heaven.”

“But the Torch is real,” said Sandalphon.

“Odd.”

Michael cleared his throat. “Let’s not get distracted.”

The four approached the pillar from the cardinal directions from force of habit. (Though it might look dramatic viewed from above if this were film and not fanfiction.) The flame within the Torch of Prometheus rose a little, curious of its company.

“You know, it reminds me of something,” said Gabriel. “Can’t put my finger on what.”

“Is it dangerous?” asked Sandalphon, adjusting his tie clip nervously.

“I certainly hope so,” said Michael. 

He lifted a hand but glanced up. From this angle, one could almost make out the impenetrable cloud-cover of the Veil, bits of primordial darkness flashing between the halos of seraphs and ophanim, unapproachable. Michael tore his eyes away and stretched out his hand. 

He instructed., “Take some of the flame now—and again whenever you have need—and _only_ then.”

When all four hands were outstretched (three right hands and one left), the little golden flame zigzagged upwards and branched out. It danced around their fingers, then tangled in their palms. 

“Remember,” said Michael, as the crackling light sank into their skin, “whatever we do, our own hands must stay clean.”

* * *

 **T** here are two ways the clean something dirtied. One is water. The other is fire.

And Uriel didn’t have to light a spark.

It was unnerving, really, letting others do it for you. You were in charge of the greatest nuclear furnace within four lightyears’ distance. You counted the spots, dyed the auroras, made sure the light and heat hit at just the right angle… But this time— _this_ time, she had to let them do it themselves. The _mortals_. With their lighter wands and their torches vomiting smoke. It was clumsy, amateur, disgusting, even if the end was the same.

Not four hours later, the archangel Uriel watched the trees catch and burn, watched flame rush through the dry leaves like a red wave. Clumsy. Stupid. Apes. 

No, apes could do better. 

But truth be told, she’d lost her love for plants anyway. No one liked to see someone prepare a birthday cake just to be told it was for someone else, not when they were just starting to feel special. Take the first garden, for example. It had been given to humans, and after she’d spent so much time getting its weather right. Even the favorite metaphors of the Almighty were about a harvest, which was a human invention, as if before bread nature hadn’t been good enough.

The flames roared and spread quickly. It had been a dry summer. There had been, of course, a few small fires, natural ones, nature’s way of renovating woodlands. But those fires hadn’t been enough, not for the leader of this country, not when the locals won rights from the courts to keep their land—land that he wanted for his allies, whose names all had little “TM” signs next to them.

Uriel had tried the locals first, tried to start small, quietly, being unsure of herself. It hadn’t worked. That still bothered her. They had looked at her like she’d had four heads, which was ridiculous. She wasn’t a cherub, after all. So she’d gone to the one they called the president next. He’d been more than receptive to her whispers in his ear at a cabinet meeting, “What if you just burned it anyway?”

He’d smiled. No. Not smiled. _Smirked_. But the idea to blame his opponents—He’d come up with that himself.

Humans really were disgusting.

The flames grew. They roared. The soldiers, holding sleeves and rags across their mouths, backed away with muffled cheers. They brandished their torches in celebration, then realized that their work was too well done: The wind was picking up. 

The sun and the sea control the wind, and this place was far from the sea. Uriel made a gesture, and the wind shifted. 

She walked away alone. 

An excellent symbol, fire, she thought. A fitting last straw to break the back of a ravenous beast who never appreciated its gifts.

Sandalphon met her at the end of the river. He was carrying a briefcase. 

“I understand the meat farms and hydrogenated oils,” he said tentatively. “But what’s this last one got to do with Gluttony? Is it the meat?”

“The meat, the milk, the timber, the oil,” Uriel listed, “the taxes, the interest payments…. Consumption, Sandalphon. And he’s not a bit sorry. None of them are.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Sandalphon said wryly. 

“It is. Just a moment.” 

Uriel stopped and drew a deep breath. 

Sandalphon asked, “What’s that about?”

“I’m holding my breath.”

“Even now?”

“No, just that one breath,” said Uriel. She eyed the briefcase. “I’m finished here. What did you have in mind for yours?”

Before Sandalphon could answer there was a rumble and the ground shook. No, that wasn’t quite the right way of putting it. The ground _and_ the air shook. The sky itself. They both felt it, because even the sun had shaken.

“What… was that?” asked Sandalphon uneasily. There were fine lines of sparks in the air. For a moment, just behind a cloud, he thought he saw a fissure in the blue, like the squint of the silver eye—one the size of a continent—then it vanished.

“I… don’t know.” Uriel had an unfamiliar feeling and tried to place it. It made her think of something she’d once read in the library—something about the aging of the universe, about stars going cold. But the feeling was too unfamiliar to an archangel. 

They’re so seldom afraid.

* * *

 **I** n London, the sky was graying with dawn.

Prince Beelzebub was not a demon of imagination, and they didn’t need to be. They could clearly remember what failure meant. They had learned it best in Palestine, when a certain shepherd boy had crashed a party with a handful of stones.

“You’re quiet.”

“You can’t hear my glaring impatience?” they threatened half-heartedly. They worried at the numbers rushing back on every timestamp. “You would see them?”

“Of course, your disgrace.”

Dagon would never upstage the Prince of Hell, but as he stood in the spotlight, his competence struck Beelzebub with surprisingly reassurance. 

“Dagon…”

“Yes, Lord Beelzebub?” Dagon glanced over.

“You were a Watcher once?”

“Yes, your disgrace.”

“I’d almost forgotten,” Beelzebub added. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

Dagon’s gaze remained on his work, but his scales blushed pink.

Beelzebub could hold a grudge for a blush like that. This day hadn’t been all bad, they decided. For all the delight they took in bureaucracy, the best temptations—not for Hell, but for _fun_ —were spontaneous. Demons had plagued the world once. The Lord of the Flies themselves hadn’t been known for their flies but for the corpses that fed them. Today had held a little of that flavor.

They’d always had Dagon too.

 _But now, if we’re found out, there’ll be Hell to pay_ , they thought. He’ll _know. And then…_

“What will we do?”

The Prince of Hell shook off the thought. “What?”

“With Crowley.” Dagon glanced over then away. “He’s immune, took a bath in holy water.”

Beelzebub didn’t like to be reminded. “We’ll decide once we reach that point,” they said. 

They shut their eyes and steepled their fingers. Even without the desk, even with the swarm asleep in their hat, it was an intimidating pose, and that intimidation worked both ways. It made them feel they were in control. What _would_ they do? The path was thorny either way… 

“My lord?”

Dagon had called more than once. Beelzebub opened their eyes, realized there was something new. It had made Dagon smile.

He said, “I found something.”

* * *

 **T** he stereotype of “greedy tyrant” is not without inspiration. The trouble is, when you chase after everything, someone eventually comes after you. You can have it all and can lose everything all the more easily. No amount of caution can protect you forever. And so Esteban Suero, so-called president of the heretofore unrecognized Democracy of Sol Este, was dead. 

Not that Gabriel was to blame. He had only mentioned it was a nice day for lunch on the veranda.

The archangel stood on the veranda now, looking out over a lush green forest towards a winding blue river and its busy dock. Behind him, the staff cleaned up. 

Nearby (and well-guarded) sat Merida Magglio. He was Sol Este’s _new_ president, and he was finishing President Suero’s lunch. _[Author’s note: The Democracy of Sol Este was unrecognized even by itself in terms of the “democratic” part.]_ Merida was a serious man. Some people optimistically say it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. They believe this means smiling is easier. These same people not only underestimate atrophy, but have never lived in Sol Este.

While in the military, just after his second promotion, Merida had decided that what he wanted in life was where he sat now: This view, this title, and this glass of wine he was pouring—although with the wine he still hoped for improvement.

“They say it’s as good as champagne,” he remarked to Gabriel dubiously over his glass, “but since it’s not from Champagne, they can’t use the name.”

“That’s what self-rule looks like, Mr. President,” said Gabriel. “Your country, your language, your patents…”

Merida sipped from the glass, then decided to Hell with propriety and threw the whole thing back in one swallow. He made a face after. “It’s not quite the same without the name,” he explained. “Damn the sanctions.”

“That’s not a nice word.”

“They’re not nice sanctions.” 

In the room behind them, a team of medics nodded greetings to the cleaning staff. The medics had been to the presidential mansion before. They’d brought a body bag last time too.

The color of the soldiers’ uniforms changed, but little else did. 

Gabriel turned to lean back against the veranda’s railing. He was successfully radiating confidence, and thereby hiding the fact that he’d seen so many kings come and go it was a joke at the office.

“What do you think?” he asked Merida.

“I think I’ll avoid using the veranda in the future.” Merida said. “I don’t like the thought that people could get ideas, reading the news.”

“Thirty minutes in,” Gabriel observed, “and you already know what you do and don’t like: I think that shows promise. Though if I were you, I’d make sure people read the right news from now on, if you take my meaning.”

“I do.” The president poured himself a second glass. He asked, “And what about your employer? He’s let you be rather helpful to me. What for?”

“We already have your word on the deliveries?”

“Oil’s easy here. But so much of it? And all at once…?”

Gabriel switched on a genial smile. “We have our own sanctions to worry about. Can’t be too careful.”

“Your success this far is admirable, sharing the wealth even more so. And the technology.”

“Sovereign states need sovereign allies.”

“Any words of wisdom then?” Merida asked. “Before you go?”

Gabriel was not well-read. _[Author’s note: He didn’t read.]_ But he had been around the globe a few times and gave Merida as much wisdom as that afforded about the start of empires (less about the end, of course). After reviewing the finer points as far back as King Nimrod and the infamous tower, Merida decided to forego a third glass of wine.

But he did ask, “And the champagne?”

“Real champagne has been known to occur,” Gabriel assured him, “eventually.”

They parted with polite words. The soldiers watched Gabriel go, but held their positions, all but one, whom Merida beckoned forward just a moment after. He was having second thoughts, mainly about his tolerance for champagne, and was worried he’d let his tongue slip a little.

“Not that we mind gifts,” he said quietly to the captain, “but our deal will still hold if the messenger gets ‘lost’ along the way, won’t it?”

* * *

 **G** abriel was heading for the river when the earth shook under his feet. For a moment, the air went _crooked_. 

He stopped immediately. Angels don’t have instincts in any strict sense, but they do sing the harmonies of Creation. They can sense discord. 

When all was still, Gabriel decided on the usual tactic for counterespionage: He took a few more steps forward, started to whistle, and then whirled around and said, “Ah hah!”

But there was only sky. 

It looked different though—like a teacup badly mended.

“Weird,” Gabriel observed.

* * *

 **F** or the next one, Sandalphon had suggested crossing the ocean and hopscotching a few islands on the way.

At the last, the conflict between a million peaceful protesters and thousands of police officers had reached not a standstill, but a stand-and- _simmer_.

This was not the work of archangels but of humans: It had been weeks since it started, the protests in earnest and well-coordinated, these humans threads braiding and binding into coils of democracy, straining to hold back tyranny. The world held its breath, especially the tyrants, who around the world were taking careful notes.

Today, for the first time, a foreboding dark train of windowless trucks had been seen crawling up the street towards the troubled district, parking just outside of it and spilling rank upon rank of dark uniforms in riot gear. They came as a swarm, any individual unnamed and unknown.

Among the stalwart crowds awaiting them, Sandalphon walked, searing the pavement just a little with each step. He could sense the building wave. It wasn’t anger. That was here in the crowd. The faceless soldiers represented a will elsewhere, one that refused to be questioned. And like the fires in the tropics, its wrath, stacked high with plenty of fear for tinder, was ready to burst into flame. It just needed the right spark.

So many of the _no’s_ to evil in life depend, not on a person’s goodness, but on the lack of opportunities to say _yes_ . This is why completely evil people can go through most of their lives thinking they’re good. Today, the archangel of the West felt powerful. He hadn’t questioned the power he felt calling brimstone down on Sodom. He did not question the Torch’s power now. It was blurring every _no_ in this city to cinders. Soon, everyone would just need to know what to say _yes_ to.

Behind him, Uriel carried a shapeless package wrapped in newspaper. It sat heavy in her hand. At a gap just between protesters and the gathering menace of the SWAT legion, they both stopped to take stock.

“Shall we flip a coin?” asked Sandalphon.

“That would be gambling.”

“I don’t think we were ever expressly commanded against that.”

Uriel was less than euphoric. “Humans are so foolish,” she said. “They really like to think they deserve mercy after they do things like this to one another.”

“There is nothing new under the sun,” Sandalphon quoted the proverb. “ShalI I take that side then?”

“Sandalphon…?”

He’d started off but turned back around.

Behind Uriel, the placards and paint were waving ceaselessly—demanding fairness, justice, mercy… 

“You realize,” said Uriel, “this plan will never work if we let any of them get an inch.”

“Well, that’s obvious.”

“You think so?” Uriel asked. Her dark eyes were a cold winter night. “Do you think Gabriel and Michael really understand that?”

“Of course,” said Sandalphon, not sure why this unnerved him a little. “Why wouldn’t they?”

“It’s been awhile since they really bothered with Wrath.”

Sandalphon shrugged despite the capital _W_. “It’s easy to pick up again. To be honest, I think Gabriel’s been getting a bit soft since Armageddon”

“I mean, they don’t see everything that goes on here, not like you and I do. I mean, look what they’ve done to the sky.”

He did look. A haze of yellow was rolling in off the main continent. “Terrible,” he agreed. But then he shrugged. “Personally,” he said, “I think it must be easier for them, not looking so much. Are you ready?”

Uriel nodded, still displeased. Sandalphon strode unencumbered across the gap between protest and police. Wary eyes watching would blame the heat and exertion for the sight: A short, balding man suddenly disappearing and a new soldier standing in his place. Fellow soldiers dismissed his briefcase because it was impossible.

Digging into the impossible briefcase, Sandalphon fished out the closest approximation to a gun an angel can come up with. It didn’t have to be a _real_ gun, just its idea: Miracles filled the gaps.

Meanwhile, Uriel tugged the newspaper open—and stopped as something tugged at her. 

Looking down, she saw a child held her sleeve.

The girl held up a sunflower. In her elbow she cradled a bundle of them, dozens. Where had a child gotten a bunch of sunflowers in this city, and at this time of year? There were other children too. Where had they all come from?

Uriel took the flower because the girl kept offering it. Then the child moved on, finding empty hands, giving them flowers. Uriel stared at her flower a moment. It was small for a sunflower, but clearly one by its broad brown face and brilliant petals. A sunflower—a plant, named for her charge but never meant for her. She was almost moved.

 _Only because she thinks I’m human._

She dropped the blossom on the ground. “Not an inch,” she muttered, and unrolled the newspaper at last. A jagged, gray rock landed heavy in her palm. 

She didn’t notice silver eyes peering through cracks behind the yellow haze. She was used to looking down.

Facing the bristling wall of soldiers, Uriel caught Sandalphon’s nod, and drew back her arm. It didn’t have to hit anything. Clean hands and all. It only had to fly. 

And light a different kind of spark.

* * *

 **I** n the security office of the National Museum, Dagon pointed to a promising frame of light as Beelzebub pushed out of the chair.

“The gift shop?”

“Better.”

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes at the screen. It showed one of the galleries. An infuriatingly familiar couple with their backs to the camera were leaning close, sniggering at something.

“They don’t even have the box yet,” said Beelzebub.

“Not that,” said Dagon, so pleased his scales brightened. “A bit further…. Lemme see… Here.”

Adam Young walked into the frame. 

Memory is a strange thing for immortals. The demons all knew, factually speaking, that Adam Young was no longer the Antichrist. Adam had been born with nearly all the powers of his father and all the advantages of a human being. He could be or not be whatever the Hell he wanted—in a very literal sense. And Adam had decided that he wanted to be normal.

But demons and angels are eternal beings. When time is just a coat you wear outdoors, little things like altered realities are just part of the same memory stream. They all recalled Adam Young, of course—second-born and only son of Arthur and Deirdre Young, of Number-Four Hogback Lane. But they also recalled Adam the Destroyer—once the firstborn son of Lucifer and Lilith, of The Depths of Hell, Level Nine.

Dagon helpfully paused the video as Adam approached the traitors. 

“What is he doing?” asked Beelzebub.

“The boy, your disgrace?”

“No. _Crowley_.”

They said the name like they wanted to rake its owner over coals, because they did.

Dagon, understanding the shock, immediately explained, “He’s smiling.”

“ _Actually_ smiling?”

“Probably because he’s a right bastard thinking of how he told the Dark Council to f—k off.”

Beelzebub’s dark eyes traveled from the unusual expression on Crowley’s face and back to Adam.

Normal, _mortal_ Adam Young.

Beelzebub smiled too. They said, “Well done, Dagon.”

Dagon shivered a little at the praise. 

“Although, he doesn’t live in London?”

“No, my lord. And no demon can manifest within Tadfield, well, aside from that sorry excuse for one.”

That was something else about Adam. Something about humans, actually. A kind of territorial stake stronger than a principality’s, for those few who were in the know. 

Beelzebub said, “We should pay him a visit.”

“Oh?”

“I think,” Beelzebub said, “we’ve found the price of the Philosopher’s Stone.”

They woke the guard.

“MORTAL, WHAT VEHICLE DO YOU POSSESS?”

* * *

 **W** ater is the first necessity of any civilization. Whole cultures have starved, gone into captivity, or died out, for water. 

Michael was waiting for Gabriel at a dock near the road. To any onlooker, he was a fisherman, enjoying the forest shade and watching sunlight play along the water.

Close to sunset, Gabriel arrived at a jaunty stride. “Woohee,” he said. “You know, when you said we should start with aspiring dictators, I thought we wouldn’t find many, but you were right.”

“I know I was.”

“Can’t throw a rock without hitting one. What’s next?” 

“Capitalists. It can wait ‘til tomorrow.” Michael’s sapphire eyes shaded to a worried green. “I’ve been waiting to hear from Beelzebub,” he said. 

“Through ‘back channels,’ you mean?” 

“I’ve tried calling. No answer.”

“Why not call it a day?”

Michael sighed, then drew in his fishing line. He set the rod aside, then dipped a hand into the water. “I’ll take a drink and we’ll be off.”

“Are you sure that’s healthy?” Gabriel asked, watching him scoop up a handful and carefully drink it down. Droplets fell as he did so and sparkled like falling stars. 

Michael had closed his eyes to savor it. “It still tastes like the mountains and the sky,” he said at last. “There are things I’m going to miss. Not the people.”

“Heavens, no.”

Michael stood and wiped his hands on his coat. “How was this one, by the way?” 

“Effective. Something odd though—”

The first shot went high over their heads. Michael, always the faster, shoved Gabriel off the dock and then dove after him into the sand.

Another shot tore over their heads like thunder.

“What was that?” asked Gabriel.

“Someone is shooting at you,” Michael explained patiently.

“ _Me_?”

“You,” said Michael, tugging at his sleeve.

Gabriel looked mortified at the hole. “But I _liked_ this jacket.”

Another shot rang out like a thunderclap. It tore at the foliage. 

“Should we be worried?” he added as an afterthought. 

“You remember what happened in Persia.”

“So I let my guard down that _one_ time.”

“One? You were always getting into trouble when we were in the field.”

Another gun fired. They threw their backs against a rubber tree. Gabriel’s hand fell over Michael’s.

“You always got me out of it,” Gabriel said.

Michael’s heart fluttered but he still said, “We should be leaving.”

“Let’s give them a lesson first,” Gabriel said with a reckless smile, “about loyalty.”

It was hard to say no to a smile like that. Hard to want to. Michael drew his sword, twirled it once, and willed it into a silver gun. “Stay low,” he said, and ducked back around the tree. Dropping flat on the ground, he aimed and took a shot.

Only a miracle would let an untrained shooter hit the target on the first try—So of course the soldier went down with a grievous wound. Nothing fatal of course—clean hands and all. 

Michael lined up another shot. “You’re _certain_ the new president trusts you?”

“ _Pffft_ . Humans make no sense to me, not even after centuri— _Yow!_ ”

Two high shots took the bark right off the tree. Gabriel threw himself down, showered in splinters.

“Are you hit?” Michael asked.

“No.” Gabriel pushed himself onto an elbow. “Anyway, I thought things went pretty well.”

Michael fired again, said, “Must be covering his trail.”

Gabriel had never heard this phrase, and he had no time to ask about it. He changed his own sword as well. It didn’t need all the engineering of a mortal weapon of course—Angel artillery runs on aesthetics and faith.

Another soldier was creeping to a better vantage point along the next dock. He dodged Gabriel’s first shot, but the bullet corrected itself out of embarrassment when Gabriel glared at it. As it hit the man’s shoulder, a spasm fired a shot that hit the archangel in the shoulder. A convincingly spray of red blood ruined the jacket completely and left Gabriel curled up and blessing in pain.

“Gabriel!” Michael made the soldier regret he had only two knees, then checked the wound. 

“This is why we can’t have nice things.” Gabriel clenched his teeth but forced a grin.

“We’re leaving.”

“Right when it’s getting fun?”

Michael had no personal attachment to his physical form, so he stood up and let his wings spread bloodied. The soldiers forgot their guns in shock—frozen by sapphire blue eyes that blazed cold as the Poles and bright as the Pleiades. 

Michael reverted the gun to a sword for the full dramatic effect, ignored the muttered prayers of the more devout sergeants, and smote the water with the silver blade.

Certain literature will suggest what happened next.

There was a great wind, then a rushing tide, and then a wall of water piling higher than the hill behind them: It slammed into the boats, the docks, the shore, hammering the hillside into mud and every structure into smithereens. Its recession dragged everyone but the angels off his feet into the river. 

The receding water dragged around his ankles and he could see a molten reflection there, was suddenly aware his hair’d come undone—a look more fit for humble linens than business clothes.

 _“Michael_ . _”_

“Did you say something, Gabriel?”

“No.”

Michael’s frown deepened and he looked up the hill, but it was bare. 

With a grunt, Gabriel stood, clutching his bloody shoulder, dripping and cringing but still trying to smile. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I am _dreading_ the paperwork on this one.”

The ground shook. The air too.

Michael said, “What was …?” but stopped because Gabriel’s smile dropped and so did he. Michael caught him quickly and sank to his knees under the weight. Pain started to leech its way into his wings.

He put up his sword and they flashed skyward like reverse lightning, leaving only Gabriel’s bloodied jacket behind.

* * *

 **B** eelzebub and Dagon left by the front door. The square was a gray desert of cobbles under moonlight with just the occasional homeless person curled up in the lee of a statue or fountain. 

Beelzebub and Dagon stopped short of the bicycle parking. Beelzebub’s flies had awoken and come out for the breeze. They whirred irritably as the pair headed for the small bike park off the main lot. Weaving through the rows of bicycles, they looked for a sticker matching the pilfered keychain.

“Shouldn’t we go back to Hell first, your disgrace?” asked Dagon, puzzled

“We’d have to explain ourselves. The risk is too great.”

They stopped and checked the keychain again, buzzed a little irritably as they compared it to the bike in front of them. It was pink, with a bell. Beelzebub buzzed again. They had a thing against pastels. Mostly because angels loved them so.

“We could get another one, I suppose,” Dagon said.

“No, thizzz will do.” Beelzebub shook off their distaste and straddled the frame. “Well?”

Dagon hesitated for only a moment. “On the… same seat?”

“There’s nowhere else.”

“We couldn’t just, well, make it a double-seater? We could both pedal…”

“It has to be normal or it won’t cross the city limits of Tadfield. Now get on.”

Dagon knew all that, but still took a moment to wrench his legs forward in an awkward, zombielike motion. He got them, eventually, straddled on the back of the seat and sat behind the Prince of Hell.

“You’ll have to hold on tighter than that.”

Dagon obliged when Beelzebub edged a bit forward, the Prince making a show of checking the breaks. Dagon didn’t speak: his voice was having a hard reboot, along with a few other crucial systems diverted to the daunting task of keeping his mind both in the moment but out of the gutter.

Beelzebub knocked the kickstand free with their heel. “It’ll take hours to get onto the motorway.”

They were close enough that Dagon could feel Beelzebub’s pounding heartbeat. Dagon felt he had to say something. 

“You’re sure His Majesty won’t be against this?”

“Would you like to ask him before we get the Stone back, or shall I?”

“A fair point.”

“Hold on.”

They set off at a good turn of speed across Trafalgar Square. Dagon shut his eyes as they bounced over the cobbles. Beelzebub pedaled as hard as they could, as if speed could let them outrun fear. 

It didn’t occur to them to get tired. Immortals generally don’t.

* * *

 **A** s Sunday stretched around the globe, the oil tankers overturned in the Pacific Ocean. There would be a new onslaught of trouble the next morning, and the next—swarms of flies, wild beasts, pestilence and locusts… all while human beings looked at newspapers and televisions, and wondered if the planet itself was going insane. 

But the volcanoes would be quiet. Strangely so, like gas burners with the pilot light switched off.


	7. Chapter the Seventh - The Beast Turns Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Anyone with experience in customer service departments knows a little bit of what guardian angels do. They know the ingratitude. The rage over something the client broke themselves. The way clients ask questions when the answers are clearly written in the manual. For that matter, they have the same troubles with the manual’s translators. Point being, if there is one thing both angels and humans understand, it’s that a seat in a cubicle of any customer service department is one in a fast flight towards apathy._
> 
> _And they also know that, now and then, there’s a stubborn coworker who won’t give up._

* * *

**_S_ ** _queak squeak squeak…._

Professionals in chaos theory talk a lot about the weather. Lay persons in chaos theory talk a lot about butterflies. This is because they come at the same idea from two different sides. The first realizes nothing is certain. The other hopes everything can be.

In fact, when meteorologists predict the future for the daily weather report, they are not surprised when, now and then, they get it wrong. Among the masses, however, cynicism and accusations of betrayal abound, as if the hurt were more than damp shoes or sunburn, but an existential crisis.

Because it is.

_Squeak squeak squeak…._

Theologians, on the other hand, debate questions like “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” Hung up on this idea, they seldom bothered with other, more interesting questions. Such as, how many demons can ride on a ten-speed bicycle?

_Squeak…_

Conclusive evidence so far suggests two.

Dawn was a mere idea as Beelzebub and Dagon met a steep slope in the countryside. Beelzebub pushed harder on the pedals but the bicycle was moving at a snail’s crawl. 

The squeaking gears were new. There was something it needed. Oil, was it? But the Prince of Hell dared not miracle anything into being. Not even a drop. Save the miracles for the attack, they decided. You never knew what might keep you out of bounds with territorial beings—and they hadn’t seen a hedgerow of Tadfield yet.

_Squeak squeak…_

Beelzebub blamed Crowley, because, let’s face it, it was becoming a habit.

_Squeak squeak squeak…._

“What did you mean by that, my prince?”

Beelzebub started a little. They’d thought the Lord of the Files had fallen asleep. “By what, Dagon?” they asked. 

“What you told Hastur.”

Beelzebub had to think back a bit. Hastur was too many hours ago. “About?”

“Us. Snogging.”

_Squeak…_

“First thing that popped into my head really.”

“Us snogging popped into your head?”

“Well, it made sense.”

_Squeak squeak squeak…_

“But we never have.”

“No.”

“But…”

“What is it now, Dagon?”

“Has it ever popped into your head before?”

_Squeeeeeak…_

Beelzebub squeezed the brakes at the top of the slope, overlooking Chiltern Hills. According to a roadside sign, the area had been named an “AONB.” (Beelzebub assumed this meant “Annoyance of Nonbinary Bicyclists.”) 

_[Author’s note: Actually it means “Area of Natural Beauty,” but both interpretations are valid.]_

They noticed Dagon holding his breath, then noticed a placard just below the first. It read, _Tadfield 24 miles_.

Beelzebub chose the safer answer. “At last, a sign,” they told Dagon. “Switch places.”

They both dismounted, groaning stiffly and Beelezub kept their eyes on the dark treeline at the bottom of the hill. The road wove into it like a snake. They wanted this little adventure ended, the Philosopher’s Stone recovered, and the rest of their plan to be underway. Everything else could wait.

“Why do you suppose Hastur assumed we had?” Dagon climbed onto the seat and shimmied forward. 

“Like I said”—Beelzebub heard Dagon’s breath hitch as they wrapped their arms around his waist—“first thing that came to mind, really.”

“Oh.”

The two demons on the bicycle set off down the hill. 

Dagon asked, “What do you suppose the angels will do next?”

“It depends.” Beelzebub buried their face in Dagon’s back against the wind and against any chance of their colleague looking back and seeing it flush pink. “But…”

A road bucked and the bicycle was thrown from the shoulder, sending both it and the demons tumbling. Dagon broke Beelzebub’s fall and the bicycle missed both their heads as it bounced. The flies swarmed worriedly.

“What in Hell was that?” asked Dagon, pulling himself up and spitting grass. He fetched the bicycle as Beelzebub staggered to their feet and peered at the sky. “Not an earthquake?”

“No…”

The shaking came again, jarring both land and air. The trees swayed as birds launched from their perches. Beelzebub hurriedly picked up their hat and dusted it off. The flies swarmed back into their shelter. 

Then all was still. Both Dagon and Beelzebub waited a moment, then they pushed the bicycle up the slope towards the road. 

“I’ve never felt the _air_ shake before,” Beelzebub remarked.

“You mean you don’t know what it is?”

“Might be the angels,” said the Prince of Hell.

“Nothing to worry about then?” Dagon remounted and braced one foot on the ground, wondering if the downward slope would be more trustworthy or simply toss them off again.

“Maybe,” said Beelzebub, remounting behind him. “I mean, His Majesty didn’t mention anything about breaking the laws of nature.”

Dagon pushed off warily, glancing first up, then down, and wondering. 

_Squeak, squeak, squeak…._

“Just out of curiosity,” he said, “what would happen if those laws were broken?”

“Something very bad,” said Beelzebub. “And it wouldn’t be the good kind of bad. Just… bad.”

“Bad?”

“And scaley.”

* * *

 **T** he running text read, over and over again, across several thousand screens:

_Your assignment has been canceled. Please visit the AR Department for a new assignment._

These days, guardian angels don’t go in for trench coats and bridges on Christmas Eve (except those few traditionalists). Modern policy puts guardians in cubicles. They watch and listen for prayers. They monitor for repentance—some hopeful, others indifferent. Now and then they send a “DI Request” to the Miracles Department. 

To be honest, most of them play Minesweeper and Solitaire when the floor manager’s back is turned.

_Your assignment has been canceled. Please visit the AR Department for a new assignment._

Another angel removed his headset and pushed back his chair. A small printer by the monitor was already juttering out a pink slip.

_Your assignment has been canceled. Please visit the AR Department for a new assignment._

Anyone with experience in customer service departments knows a little bit of what guardian angels do. They know the ingratitude. The rage over something the client broke themselves. The way clients ask questions when the answers are clearly written in the manual. For that matter, they have the same troubles with the manual’s translators. Point being, if there is one thing both angels and humans understand, it’s that a seat in a cubicle of any customer service department is one in a fast flight towards apathy.

And they also know that, now and then, there’s a stubborn coworker who won’t give up.

The guardian angel Jaelle was one of those. 

_Your assignment has been canceled. Please visit the AR Department for a new assignment._

Jaelle had noticed the scraping chairs before her own screen lit up. Because no one was paying attention, she muttered a word she’d learned from one of her charges. She stubbornly did not leave her seat, only keyed the ’com for assistance. 

“He’s not due for another year at least,” she murmured. If someone had screwed up… She pulled up the Divine Intervention Request form from the server and started typing furiously. It was going to take a Heaven of a miracle though, putting a whole skull and the like back together while the autopsy was in progress no less, but… 

“You too?”

Jaelle paused and leaned back in her chair to glance one cubicle over. Another guardian angel, Matarael, was looking right back. His hair was fallen in his face in curly dejection.

She asked, “What do you mean, Mat?”

He pointed to his screen and Jaelle wheeled her chair backward a bit to look. The same text was scrolling across its feed. He explained, “Thought there’d be a decade at least.” He pushed all his hair back from his face and tried to smile, then called to the next row over. 

“Hey, Araphon!”

“Yee-ah?” A blond head two rows down popped up.

“How’s the wife doing?”

“Don’t worry, Sam’s given the brother a ‘bad feeling,’ so he’ll visit. He’s good about listening to those.”

“Thanks.” Matarael sighed and pulled off his headset. “Back to AR, I guess.”

Jaelle hit “send” on her DI Request anyway. Plenty of people were still alive who were much more foolish, after all. Stunt drivers, shark tamers, and skydivers—to name a few. 

Standing, Jaelle could see the rest of the department for about a mile. Few angels watched their charges diligently. Some were on the chat, plotting pranks. Most were playing Minesweeper.

There were red and yellow chyron’s springing up all over the place. 

Eventually the manager made his way over. He was the army quartermaster’s brother. You could only really tell the difference in that his beard curled down and his brother’s curled up; they were one mood.

“Well, don’t dawdle there pouting about it, the two of you,” he said. Stopping, he tore the pink slip from its printer and waving it pointedly until Jaelle took it. “Chop-chop, up to Angel Resources. Stop the long face, Jaelle—He was a lost cause anyway.”

Jaelle hunched her shoulders as she walked and Matarael followed. She fought the urge to tear the pink slip to pieces and glared at the floor. _[Author’s note: It was ivory-colored linoleum. The streets of Heaven_ are _paved with gold, but indoors, linoleum’s just more practical.]_

“He was _my_ lost cause,” she muttered. Matarael patted her shoulder sympathetically.

Jaelle had been hopeful about Esteban Suero three years ago. Sure, Armageddon was canceled, but between the rains of fish and fire, and the rise of Atlantis, it had looked like he might reconsider his life of tyranny. But many a _yes_ stops because the _no_ is easier. Some evil is mindless, locked in the system itself. Jaelle had never been to Sodom, but she’d seen Sol Este well enough.

Still, she’d had a year. She’d thought she had a year.

* * *

 **S** t. James Park was quiet at five a.m. The paths lay bare under the paling sky. The cafe windows were dark. The gates weren’t even unlocked. Technically.

They opened for the Bentley anyway, because gates always did. The lights flared across the pond for just a moment, then dimmed as the motor cut off.

Near a bench by the lake was a spot of plane trees that the park staff didn’t remember planting. The veteran gardeners didn’t think about them much, or about the flowers and ferns growing greener close by. It was a park, after all.

Crowley set an African violet, pot and all, down on a clear bit of soil. He crouched down on his heels, let his sunglasses slide down the bridge of his nose by a hair, and glared at it. His golden eyes gleamed.

“You see this place?” he asked. “This is where the bad plants go. No one’s going to shut the curtains for you here. No one’ll ask you whether you want to get rained on. Now sit here and think about that, will you?”

He strode back to the Bentley. A moment later, he returned with a trowel and small bags of planter’s soil and compost that he’d mixed himself. If anyone had been about, they might have questioned why a gardener wore black, which was why Crowley always made sure no one was about.

There are tricks to unpotting flowers. Necessities. Don’t bury the stem too deep. Not too shallow either. And the roots need tending first, all turned in on themselves. Leave that knot, and they’ll never grow out, or up, at all.

“It’s not terrible,” he told the shuddering plant. “You get used to it. Wonder why you ever liked that boring, stuffy flat. But you’re going to have to care for yourself—You’re going to have to cope. Take some pride in your appearance, will you? Yellow leaves need sunlight. I can’t open them for you…”

Crowley stopped mid-threat. He sat back on the mulch and drew a few deep breaths. “For Earth’s sake,” he muttered to himself, pushing a hand up under his sunglasses. “Get a bloody hold of yourself.”

He leaned forward again, finished patting down the soil, then cupped the offending leaves tenderly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. The violet shuddered, then stilled, as if listening. “I’m not good at this. But you weren’t made to stay where you were. You’ll do better out here, you just have to believe it.”

He drew back his hands, sighed, and dropped the trowel in the bucket with the leftover soil. The sun was coming up. The ducks were waking. A soft breeze was rolling across the water with the dawn. There was silent music in it. Loud music too—choruses of insects, birds, westward winds, and rising tides… 

His Infernal Majesty had once asked, _“Do you ever write songs anymore, Crawly?”_ Crowley had been good at lying by then. He’d said no.

Old Horns couldn’t be behind this, could he? 

Crowley stared across the water, patting absently at the soil of the shuddering violet. He tried not to think of the thing locked up in his safe. Not thinking was the best way to lie. You gave nothing away if it wasn’t there.

He said, “You’ll be fine.”

Someone else said, “You don’t look like a gardener.”

Turning quickly, Crowley stood, ready to deny everything.

A weathered woman with gray, curly hair eased herself down on one end of the bench. 

Crowley checked his watch. Nearly six a.m. He looked around warily, but the rest of the park was empty. He forced a grin. “I’m not official,” he said.

“Clearly.” The woman pulled out a bag of crusts. “There’s a sign about that.”

“Sure of that?”

She pointed a crust at a wall of long grass. Behind it stood a rusting placard. It read, _No unapproved flora permitted_.

Crowley eyed the sign, then the crust, then said, “I suppose I’m safe if you are.”

“Oh, I’m not safe.” She flagrantly tossed the crust to an early duck. “I just don’t give a damn anymore.”

“Never had much respect for signs myself,” said Crowley, impressed. He found something of the old groove come back. “Impersonal, lazy things, really. Deserve to be ignored.” He plucked up the trowel. “Excuse me…”

He left her staring and checked in with the nearest rubber tree. “You,” he said, lowering his voice, “don’t go casting so much shade on the new ones.”

“How many have you planted?”

Crowley glanced back. “A few. How long have you fed ducks?”

“Time out of mind.”

Crowley scratched the space between his shoulders thoughtfully. _Odd. That is an odd thing to say._

“Why do you plant them?” she asked.

“Why do you feed the ducks?”

“I like them.”

“But at this hour? You just want all the attention then?”

“I suppose a rogue gardener with jeans painted on, wearing sunglasses before sunup isn’t the one who wants attention?”

“Nah, not really.” 

“You’re just a flash bastard then?” 

“Say what you like about my Mother,” he said with a shrug. “She doesn’t care. Not since She kicked me out.”

“You don’t call now and then?”

“She wouldn’t answer.” Crowley shrugged. It wasn’t a lie. He thought he might genuinely feel bad it he had to lie to this stranger. Gathering the bag of soil, the pot, and the trowel, he said, “I’ve got someone waiting. Have a damn-free Sunday, ma’am.”

“You also, young man.”

He didn’t think he looked all that young, but to someone like her perhaps he did. Most mortals would be. Crowley glanced a half-hearted threat at the African violet before sauntering back to the Bentley. He slammed the car door and snapped his fingers, and started the engine as the Mall gates opened by themselves. 

What was some thunder-gray woman doing at St. James so early? She didn’t have the look of a Russian spy. And how d’she get in? Still, Crowley felt glad. He couldn’t help it. Glad someone else was breaking the rules. 

“ ‘Flash bastard.’” He grinned despite everything. “Just what I was going for.”

* * *

 **T** he morning quiet was so deep it seemed loud. Aziraphale woke in his flat on his own. 

There’d been a dream. It hovered with him awhile. He’d been alone, walking the halls of the oldest library in Creation, searching for… something. A book, of course. A casebound quarto, narrow with uneven pages inside a red cover. He could not recall the title, but he did know that the lettering was not gold leaf but mother of pearl. It had caught primordial rainbows and bits of lightning, like a warning. He’d just brushed the spine with his fingertips when he’d woken up. 

Aziraphale didn’t register where he was at first, only recalled a great deal of wine Saturday night and a drive in the Bentley. Habit tucked his wings back into their other dimension, wrapped and tied his dressing gown, and slid his bare feet into a pair of terrycloth slippers. When his hand fell back on the bed, he realized it was half empty. Then he remembered a yawn under tired yellow eyes. 

“Crowley?”

Rising, Aziraphale shuffled into his small kitchenette. It was the size of a small closet but perfect for coffee and supper for one (except when it was perfect for two). A small note was tacked to the fridge with the magnet of a little coiled serpent:

_“I’ll be back in two shakes of a snake’s tail, angel. Don’t you worry.” —Anthony_

The dream had left him with chills, but the signature made him smile.

Aziraphale took his cocoa downstairs to his shop to go through the rituals that might or might not end in him opening for the day: Lighting the lamps a few at a time, browsing his records for something to play on the gramophone, checking his mail and calendar… 

Aziraphale had known Crowley as Crowley for two-thirds of forever. “Anthony” was only a few decades old. So was the _J_ in the middle. Aziraphale was still getting used to the name, the way you got used to nice clothes: At first, they just seem too nice to wear, but you can’t help it because they are so very nice and, besides, isn’t that why you bought them? Even so, Aziraphale saved it for special occasions.

His own choice of name was merely an alias.

_“A. Z. Fell?” Crowley had tried it, when he’d first seen the shop’s gilded letters at its opening. It had been circa 1880 then. “Like Zira’s the middle part?”_

_“It’s a pun, dear boy. We used to pun with the prophets all the time, you know.”_

_“It takes humor to survive foresight, I suppose.”_

_“That and a lot of alcohol.”_

Crowley had hefted a bottle of champagne approvingly. He’d turned his head at the sign again. _“_ ‘ _Fell?’ Past tense? Something you’re not telling me, angel?”_

Aziraphale still remembered how he’d panicked at Crowley’s smirk. Panicked, and something else. He’d been too naive to realize then why his heart had raced. _“Um, it’s just, that youngster Freud made fun of the other spelling.”_

_“Nng. ’Bout all he’s good for yet, making fun.”_

There’d been a lot of wine at the celebratory dinner afterward, far more bottles than the one Crowley had brought along. Crowley had also brought flowers and at one point that night had put a daisy in his hair. 

_“So it is ‘Aziraphale Zira Fell,’ or ‘Azira Zira-phale’?”_ he’d asked. _“Or is it ‘Aziraphale-Zi-Fell’? ‘Aziraphale Ziraphale Fell’? Did I say that last one already?”_

Aziraphale had admired that Crowley could keep even those syllables straight. _“Whatever you like, Crowley dear,”_ he’d said.

 _“I like Aziraphale, Mr. A.Z. Fell.”_ Crowley had grinned up from the coach until Aziraphale had blushed. Then the demon had poured them both more wine. He’d asked, _“You think I should have a proper name?”_

_“Crowley’s lovely.”_

_“Ah, well… I mean, should it be an ‘A’ like yours isss? Go A, B, C… Or maybe a ‘J’? Nice work, Seventeenth Century, inventing the ‘J’. You know they’ve gone and renamed Mary’s boy wi’ it?”_

_“I was there, Crowley. You were too.”_

_“Damn right, we were. We were there for the whole lot of it…”_

Aziraphale looked forward to the day he learned what that was about too. Even if it was “just a ‘J,’ really," as Crowley had first said, that was fine. He’d feel honored to know.

Aziraphale had finished his cocoa and was just considering popping out for a bite to eat when the bell over the door rang. Since the door was still locked, this meant Crowley had returned. Aziraphale turned with a smile of welcome and the demon plopped himself upside-down into a wingback chair. He crossed his ankles against the antimacassar and let his sunglasses droop onto his forehead with snakey grin. 

“Morning, angel.”

“Good morning, Anthony.”

Crowley smiled warmly. “Sorry not to wake you.” 

“Why didn’t you?”

“You were dreaming of books. It would have been a crime.”

* * *

 **S** oon Crowley and Aziraphale were heading in the Bentley towards eggs benedict at approximately eighty-five miles per hour. They were accompanied by the Best of Mozart (lyrics by Brian May).

“ _O…oh…, people of the earth, listen to the words of the seer, he said…_ ”

“Those were pedestrians, Crowley.” Aziraphale pointedly reached up to hold the grip over the window as they swerved in and out of several lanes. 

“Damn too many of them for this hour too.”

“Their light was green.”

“And their eyes were open.” Crowley spun the wheel as they headed for South Lambeth. He asked more seriously, “Something wrong, angel?”

“I think I might see how things are doing, Up There, as it were.”

“ _...told of death as a bone-white haze, taking the…_ ”

“The AM?” Crowley swerved out of the lane and back in to avoid a double-decker. “You’ll have to roll down the window.”

“Of course. If you wouldn’t mind the radio…”

Of course.”

“ _O…oh…, people of the earth—_ ”

Crowley snapped the switch and changed lanes without signaling, and Aziraphale shut his eyes though his stomach still leapt. He listened. 

After some time, he said, “That can’t be right.”

“A lot of things up there aren’t, angel. I’ve been telling you,” said Crowley. He added, more seriously.” “What is it?”

“A draft.”

“I’ve been meaning to check the door gasket.”

“Not that kind.”

* * *

 **J** aelle and Matarael ascended to the unemployment office and stared despondently down the long bright halls of eternity. There were hundreds of myriads waiting, some for employment, others for department paperwork. A few faces hid behind recent copies of _The Celestial Times_ , but there were rueful smiles and waves from other colleagues as Jaelle looked around. 

She and Matarael took numbered tickets from the machine by a window (Jaelle’s was 31,212), then strode to the nearest pair of empty seats, settling in for a long wait beside a beleaguered-looking messenger reviewing a crossed out list. 

“Long day?” she asked the messenger.

“Huh. Let’s just say I’m sorry I called Samuel precocious back in the day…” 

“Oh?”

“Prophets,” the angel explained. “Young ones. I get there to tell them to warn about war and plague and climate change, and they’re already on it. Makes a messenger feel bloody useless, it does.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, I suppose.” Jaelle tried to smile sympathetically, but she felt raw, like her wing feathers had been stroked backwards. She was still clutching her pink slip. “I’m on reassignment from Sol Este.”

“You look a bit miffed.”

“Usually the higher-ups are more tactful when they let you go.” Jaelle tried to force a light tone and a shrug. “Send a memo at least.”

“What can you do?” the messenger sighed, rolling up his list. He picked up a copy of the _Times_. 

“Hey, Mat,” Jaelle leaned over to whisper to Matarael, “how did you lose yours?” 

“Forest fire. You?”

“Assassination.” She glanced at the messenger, but he wasn’t paying them any mind. Still, she lowered her voice. “Something odd though.”

“Oh?”

“I thought… I mean, for just a moment, I thought I saw Lord Gabriel there, at the presidential mansion.”

“Why would an archangel be at a dictator’s assassination?”

Jaelle shrugged. “It’s not like Esteban was another Ramses II.” She sighed shakily and miracled herself a handkerchief. “It never gets easy….”

“I know,” Matareal sighed. “You get attached.” 

“I must be seeing things.”

Matareal glanced up and down the rows again. “Maybe,” he said. “Funny thing though…”

_“Now serving, 13,209…”_

Jaelle picked up a copy of _The Times_ from a side table but didn’t open it. “Oh?”

“Could’ve sworn I saw Uriel at mine.”

That _was_ odd. Jaelle looked up and stared across the room worriedly.

_“Now serving, 13,210… 13,211…”_

Matarael waved his ticket at her. “They’re fast today, aren’t they?”

“Good luck.”

“I think Ariya said we’d be in Chile next. Twins or something.”

Jaelle nodded. “That’ll be nice.”

She looked back down at her newspaper, but a moment later glanced up. Matarael was walking away from the window, confused and holding a pale uniform and helmet in his arms. 

Looking left, then right, and assured that no one was really paying attention to her, Jaelle stood up and strolled after him.

“What happened to the twins?”

Matarael started to answer, but his moptop of curls immediately fell in his eyes. She fixed them for him as he shrugged. “The clerk said the army’s looking for more soldiers.”

“What for?”

“Dunno. Just opening ranks. Not much in the guardian department.”

_“Now serving, 13,212…”_

“You mean like low birthrates or something?”

“It could be interesting.”

A few more angels carrying uniforms and helmets passed them.

Jaelle said, “You’re terrible at swordsmanship.”

“Might get a lance. Hodiah got a lance.” He pointed a hand and a wing at another angel chatting up the quartermaster.

_“Now serving, 13,212…”_

Jaelle rubbed her wings together nervously. “I feel like there are more guardian angels here than usual. Was there a plague or something?”

_“13,212? Now serving, 13,212…”_

“Dunno. Anyway, good luck with your next assignment.”

“Yeah, sure. Don’t poke someone’s eye out—including your own.”

“But then I’d get to meet Raphael.”

Jaelle tried to laugh. It was a joke; angels were so hard to injure: Some angels hadn’t met the healer even after six thousand and three years.

 _“13,212…Jaelle, I know you’re here. I can see you.”_ The nearest secretary beckoned impatiently as Jaelle turned her head. She blushed as half the room looked up too, and minced her steps a little in apology.

The secretary looked on with the practice minimum effort of receptionists everywhere: “Got a new assignment for you,” she said, and passed over a yellow slip of parchment. It had a very official-looking stamp on it. Jaelle read it once, then read it a second time. “Military service?”

“You remember your basic training, from before Armageddon?”

“From… Oh, right, that. Um, is it happening, again? I thought there was news of a truce…”

“Check in with the quartermaster. He’ll give you the details.”

Jaelle glanced at the parchment again: _Infantry. Dispatch: October._

“Is it the demons?” she asked.

“It’s not my fault if you don’t read the _Times_. Get going. I’ve others to serve.”

Jaelle’s stomach sank. (She’d never been issued a mortal corporeal form but there was no better way of thinking about her distress.) The last time this had happened, after all, the world had been about to end.

Hugging the uniform to her chest and brushing her wings together nervously, Jaelle followed the growing tail of the quartermaster. 

* * *

**A** nathema Device was a witch and, besides that, annoyed.

The average witch has six senses. There are the usual five, of course; and then there’s the common sense. They don’t talk about this. They would lose the advantage, for one thing. It’s much better to let others think your occult powers are something flashy, like talking to demons _[Author’s note: ones who do not drive Bentleys, that is]_.

It is worth noting that Anathema Device was an _above-average_ witch. Anathema had seven senses.

The seventh was that she could predict the future—her own, not that of others. It would hit her at odd times, usually when she was doing something that let her mind go awhile, like sweeping up or cleaning the lough. Today she was hanging the laundry when one hanger decided it had been a dowsing rod in a past life. It swung and tugged at her hand until she let it have its way and it pointed towards Hogback Wood.

“Well then,” she muttered to no one in particular. She went inside to inform Newt.

Three years ago, as the world was ending, Newton Pulsifer had been a fledgling witch hunter, who’d happily succeeded his ancestors by finding a witch. After this, he’d happily failed those same witch-hunting ancestors by marrying her. 

_[Author’s note: While not a prophet, Newt enjoyed finding puns in things. This was his own foible. Anathema refused to acknowledge any joke involving witchcraft and newts, including but not limited to eye of Newt, tongue of Newt, and extract of Newt.]_

Since before sunup, Newt had been seated at the dining table with a schematic rolled out before him. It draped like a tablecloth. The contents resembled the conspiracy theory corkboard of a Da Vinci enthusiast. Between markup, he deftly managed a slide-rule. Jasmine Cottage was a rustic cottage, even more so since it was devoid of anything electronic that would constitute “technology” aside from a decrepit microwave range, a black-and-white television, and an iPad. Newt touched none of these. Ever.

Newt was what one might call a reverse–computer engineer. It was a bit like gardening, really. Some people are born with a green thumb, others with a black. A similar karma befalls information technology professionals. Whereas Anathema’s ancestors had been witches for centuries looking forward, Newt’s bloodline had the distinct ability to move any bit of progress into the dark ages just by trying to make it better. _[Author’s note: He had a cousin somewhere, cranking out franchise reboots in Hollywood.]_

Anathema walked into the kitchen through the back door. “Something isn’t right,” she said.

“I expected that last night when the carrots turned into artichokes,” Newt said with a nod. 

“I was hoping it was just a passing phase,” Anathema sighed. 

She opened a few drawers and pulled out the odd knick-knacks that always lie around a house waiting to be useful again. Soon she’d put together a cat’s cradle of oddities and held it between her splayed fingers to create a witch’s tool (or device, as Newt liked to call it when she didn’t stop him). It was a Shambles—the kind with a capital “S.”

Newt glanced up and let his brow wrinkle. “How wrong is it, then?”

Anathema watched an ant crawl along a bit of floss. A washer was spinning on its own just an inch away, apparently unfixed to anything. 

“That’s interesting,” she muttered.

She was startled when a sparrow dove through the open window, grabbed the ant in its beak, and flew out again. Immediately after, the floss snapped, and the washer pinged off the kitchen range before spinning into oblivion behind the fire grate. Anathema’s dark eyebrows knit worriedly. 

“And that’s… troubling,” she said.

“That’s almost like the time the egg exploded and the termite did a polka,” said Newt, taking off his glasses for a polish. “What does it mean?”

“Something at Hogback Wood. You mind if I go out after breakfast?”

“Suppose something would insist,” Newt said. “I’ve got my hands full here. Don’t worry about me.”

“Still mapping the universe?”

“Someone has to do it. You’ll help me fax this all later at the library?”

“Assuming nothing comes up. Or down. Sure.” She kissed his forehead. “For science.” 

* * *

**T** he chalk pit in Hogback Wood had been the hideout of The Them since childhood. It consisted of old wooden planks, lines of string, broken bits of fence, and chains of iron. Adam had always had a throne. It hadn’t occurred to him to stop and The Them didn’t mind. He was the leader, after all, and he no longer had a big head about it. 

Beside the throne slept Dog the Hellhound. Presently, the black and white mutt twitched his inside-out ear once.

“No, no, Brian, you’re doing it wrong.”

Dog opened one eye at the sound of his master’s voice, and yawned.

“I’m not sure I can do it right, Adam.”

While in theory Dog had at birth had the capacity to drag a damned soul down to Hell, the small canine had been content for the past three years to live in the town of Tadfield with no other prospects than that of local cat-worrier. Indeed, anything of his hellish nature but the at-will glowing red eyes had burned away by now. (And he only kept the eyes in hopes that the big ginger cat next door might be impressed.)

Dog blinked at the artistic escapades of the hollow.

All morning, The Them had been reenacting—or rather, “stunt-posing” paintings. Pepper had brought a book, and after some study they’d gone and come back with a number of brightly colored bathrobes, towels, and bedsheets for costuming. The present piece was _Judith Beheading Holofernes_. The other three posed as Adam looked on.

Brian said, “I don’t see why I can’t be Holofernes.”

“Because Wensleydale asked first. And Pepper’s Judith,” said Adam.

“But Assyrian generals don’t wear eyeglasses.”

“That’s artistic license, that is.”

“So is, I suppose, the fact that everyone in the picture is Italian,” provided Wensleydale, who was currently on the ground, pretending to be beheaded. There was a pool of ketchup nearby for full effect.

Adam put on his knowledgeable voice. “Of course. All art is license. Italians didn’t have Internet. They didn’t know how Hebrew people dressed. They thought everyone dressed the same.”

“Why d’they think Greeks didn’t wear clothes, do you think?” asked Brian.

“Probably on account of the warm weather or something.”

“Can I at least be a handboy instead?”

Pepper held the bottle of ketchup in one hand and a gladius in the other. The gladius was plastic. She’d bought the sword last All Hallows Eve in a moment of nostalgia. 

She said, “Brian, it’s like a stunt double, right? The artist can change the details later.”

“So you can play a handboy, but the painter will paint a handmaid,” Adam agreed. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Wensleydale said, “Adam, are there any Italians in the Bible?”

“Not sure they had Italy back then,” Adam admitted.

“They had Romans,” Brian added helpfully, rewrapping his skirt into something more like a toga. “I think they were all Romans back then. Maybe they hadn’t settled in Italy yet. That’s why they were _roaming_ …”

“Can I get up now, Adam?” asked Wensleydale.

“...sorta like how crickets come from England maybe…”

Pepper said, “We should tell the artist to be more conscious of race this time.”

“Adam?”

“...or kissing being invented in France.”

“ _Adam_?”

“What? Oh, go ahead, Wensleydale. And we definitely should have a _conscious_ artist. All the best artists will be conscious in the future.”

“What are you kids getting up to?”

Adam glanced out of the hollow to see a pair of owl-eye glasses blinking down at them over a perplexed smile.

“Oh, hi, Anathema,” he said. He and the others waved. “We’re stunt-posing. For paintings.” He made a gesture, and The Them hurried back into their positions.

“I see…”

“It’s very important,” added Brian, “since it’s too dangerous to paint real battles and murders.”

“You don’t say?”

“This is one in Pepper’s book. Pepper’s Judith. Brian’s her handboy, and Wensleydale’s the Assyrian king they’re beheading.”

“Oh, Holofernes. I know that one. Ms. Gentileschi is a very empowering artist in my opinion. Um, you kids haven’t noticed anything strange going on in the woods lately?”

Pepper was relayering the ketchup around Wesleydale’s head. “Not really.”

“Odd. Well, if you see anything, let me know. I’ve a feeling.”

“Is it a witch feeling?”

“Yes, Adam. Hopefully nothing terrible. Your stunt-posing looks good, by the way.”

“Thanks, we thought it might.”

Anathema disappeared over the crest again and Adam and the others started flipping pages in search of their next endeavour.

* * *

 **T** he streets of Tadfield Square were cobbled. R.P. Tyler, neighborhood watch, had complained more than once to the _Tadfield Inquirer_ that cobbles were not well appreciated by young people these days. 

“ _The harmony between landscape and architecture befitting a traditional English village_ ,” he’d written to Editor Loni Smith, “ _is an art degraded by the ignorance of the very youth who benefit from it._ ” That letter had been quite an accomplishment, one of his best. (He kept copies.) Perhaps it had been a bit long. The editor had mentioned, last R.P. Tyler called, that they still hadn’t found a place for it.

The cobbles were duly appreciated by R.P. Tyler when he walked his beat in the square twice a day (or even three times) with his wife’s dachshund, Shutzi. Donna Tyler had insisted he do so, to keep him on his rounds, no doubt, fine woman. The Tadfield neighborhood watch, while underappreciated, was a most necessary part of small-town life, one that R.P. Tyler was determined to keep intact. 

The watch was comprised of a president, a vice-president, and a secretary. There was also a treasury position, but the donations had stopped after the treasurer had started criticizing the state of local gardens. Each role was a difficult and thankless job, but someone had to take up the mantle. In fact, being the watch’s sole member, R.P. Tyler wore them in layers, and still found time to grace the _Inquirer_ with his sagely letters. 

At the core of Tadfield’s problems, R.P. Tyler knew, were the young people. There were far too many young people these days. You didn’t see as many old people as you used to. And what did those young people at the PTA complain about? Not the upkeep of cobbles, but the trouble with cycling on them! How they caught your tires, made you slip in the rain, came loose and left potholes… Clearly, the weight of tradition was lost on the young and their insatiable and reckless need for speed.

_Squeak, squeak, squeak…_

Why, just three years ago, a Bentley on fire had burned through the streets of Tadfield with a driver so dim he’d only asked for directions. (R.P. Tyler had dutifully given them.) On the drugs, that’s what it was. Shameful. Young people these days couldn’t possibly be expected to make rational decisions without—

 _Sque_ —There came the scream of bad brakes, a crash, and a sudden diminutive roar of anger: 

_“Judas H. Iscariot!”_

R.P.Tyler turned around, tugging at Shutzi’s leash. The dachshund worked its tiny legs to a blur to keep up as he approached a crumpled pink bicycle at the center of the empty square. One wheel was still spinning in the air. The other was caught in the cobbles. 

Just beyond it, two people were trying to find their feet and kept tripping over each other.

The first thing R.P. Tyler noticed as the wind shifted was that they smelled horrible. Clearly sports enthusiasts, up to all kinds of irresponsible nonsense like sweating. And he was pretty sure he’d spotted at least one tattoo on each. But, being the bigger man, he affected a pleasant smile and said, “May I help you, good sirs?”

“Who’s he talking to?” the larger asked. 

Worried they might be concussed, R.P. Tyler raised his voice. “You seem to be without head-safety gear. Gone and cracked your skulls, have we?”

The smaller of the two cyclists stared up at him with a lost, then irritated expression. “Oh thank Hell, a mor… a hu… a local.” They stood and gave a hand up to the other. “You alright, Dagon?”

“Yes, your Lowness.” 

_Ah_ , R.P. Tyler felt very smug. _That must be “the slang.”_

He said, “Not from around here, I take it?”

The two strangers stared at him a moment, then turned their backs and convened in whispers. R.P. Tyler found this remarkably rude and so leaned in, trying to eavesdrop on the private conversation. For some reason it sounded like a collection of snarls, but he made out the words “low profile” and what sounded like a sigh of disappointment about having “a bite.”

They turned back around and he braced a smile as he leaned back. (Was that a fly perched on the little one’s ear?)

“Elderly hu—I mean, venerable sir,” said the taller one, “we are looking for a boy by the name of Adam Young.”

“In trouble again, is he? You know, just last summer that boy was pilfering apples from my garden again.”

“That’s nice—”

“What, thievery?”

“—of you to tell us, I mean.”

“Young people have no respect for authority these days.”

“Surely, a great disappointment to his father,” agreed the shorter one. 

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” admitted R.P. Tyler. “Arthur’s too lenient with the boy, if you ask me. In my day, if young people talked back like his boy does time and time again there’d be a belt or a switch, maybe even a night without supper.”

“Good to know that campaign’s still going strong somewhere,” the taller said to the shorter, who shrugged with begrudging appreciation. 

R.P. Tyler asked, “So, what’s the little devil gotten into this time?”

They looked shocked, then there was another short conference, this one ending with the smaller one striking the other on the shoulder and hissing, “I don’t know. Maybe he told someone.”

They turned back around.

“We don’t suppose he’s out with… friends?” asked the taller one warily.

“Most certainly,” said R.P. Tyler, “getting up to all kinds of mischief in Hogback Wood.”

“The woods again?” The short one looked crestfallen. R.P. Tyler wondered if the dirt splatters on the bicycle meant they had been “off-roading it.” 

“You’re welcome to tell me what’s the matter,” he volunteered.

The short one said, “It’s only, we’re... Publicans.”

“What, like Americans?” _[Author’s note: R.P. Tyler had heard of ‘republicans’ and so thought perhaps they’d had a predecessor.]_

“Publi _cists_ ,” the taller corrected. “Youth literacy is a terrible problem these days.”

“Oh, I would agree to that…”

“The literate youth are, um… Well, we heard he wrote a book for a contest.”

“You mean he isn’t in trouble?” R.P. Tyler bit back his disappointment.

“No, not yet. I mean, he will be—if we don’t encourage positive actions to the contrary. We’ll be going then…”

“Are you awfully sure you haven’t struck your head on something?” asked R.P. Tyler. “But where are my manners? I’m not even introducing myself. R.P. Tyler, neighborhood watch.”

They both looked taken aback. He supposed it was rather impressive.

The taller said, “You mean, there are more of you?”

“Not really, no, but—no matter. Why not settle your minds with a cup of tea? You look like you could use a pick me up.”

“Oh, we’re not really…”

“Nonsense. I insist—No, Schutzi, not on the geraniums!”

While R.P. Tyler hurriedly dug in his pocket for a plastic bag, the two strangers righted the bicycle and began hobbling towards the woods. 

Schutzi whined and R.P. Tyler turned to look after them. Well, there was no pleasing some people. He shook his head and resolved to tell Arthur about the whole thing later.

“Young people these days! Not even drinking tea,” he muttered. He decided right then and there—he’d have to write another letter to the _Inquirer_.

* * *

 **T** he Best Cafe on Garrett Lane advertised the “best breakfast” and they weren’t wrong. It also advertised itself as “about half an hour’s drive from Soho,” but this was less accurate, as far as lead-footed demons in Bentleys were concerned.

As usual, Crowley inhaled his toast and beans and ordered seconds. Aziraphale worked at his own meal more slowly, clearing his breakfast plate to immaculate, all while keeping late-eighteenth century table manners. Other angels and even demons might have dismissed this as Epicurean indulgence, but Crowley knew better: Aziraphale never paid one bite less attention than another.

Eventually, Aziraphale dabbed his napkin daintily about his lips. “But, dearest, do you suppose Heaven knows?” 

“Try not to think of it, angel. It’s really not our problem.”

The advice was hypocritical, because Crowley _was_ thinking about it, but a demon being hypocritical was hardly out of character. It would be _easier_ to forget a reality-altering device sat in his safe waiting to end the world, but something told him this would be no wiser than forgetting there was a shark in your bathtub. Peace of mind in such extreme and bizarre conditions could only last so long.

Aziraphale said, “They’re liquifying the entire guardian angel division into an infantry. You do realize what that means?”

“It means they don’t know that Hell has lost the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Can we know that for certain?”

“Aziraphale, we lost the Antichrist for eleven years. I think Hell would feel a touch more embarrassed about this.”

“I suppose…”

“I’ll prove it.” Crowley pointedly swung his eyes up to the television in the corner of the room. Today an American film on mute featured Harrison Ford, who should have been snatching a golden treasure from a boobytrapped temple. Instead, he was making threatening gestures towards the two of them. 

The subtitles’ font was glitching from Courier New into threats in jagged Papyrus. At the moment they read, “…AND IF YOU DON’T, WE’LL USE YOUR INTESTINES FOR MAYPOLE RIBBONS.”

Aziraphale glared coldly at the screen. “Oh, for Earth’s sake,” he said.

“You know, I rather liked that film,” Crowley added. “Melting faces. Very realistic. Remember that time Dagon...”

“It knocked him flat!” Azirphale laughed. 

Crowley felt his knotted stomach unwind. “See. No one’s told them we have it. Their plans are self-sabotaged. The war’s practically lost already.”

“I suppose.”

“We just need to figure out how to get rid of the thing.” 

Since no one else was looking, Crowley made a rude gesture at the screen and then settled back into his chair, feeling smug. Angrily, Mr. Ford stormed down-screen and was crushed by a rolling boulder.

“Perhaps we do,” Aziraphale sighed. “But I can’t help have questions. I’m afraid you’ve rubbed off on me, Crowley.”

“Glad to. What about?”

“It’s only, what must the angels have gotten in return?”

It was a very good question. It struck Crowley like a slap in the face.

Aziraphale and Crowley were both of a careful sort (they’d kept their friendship a secret from Heaven and Hell for millenia, after all). Crowley was the planner, the plotter. He took tools and maps to use for something greater than the sum of their parts. Aziraphale was the collector, the sort who made lists and indexes before laying his hands on anything. He’d learn the missing piece by the things surrounding the space, then spend decades seeking it out in old bookshops and half-haunted libraries. Not for a plan, not for use, but for its own sake. And then he’d keep it. Safe.

So of course he had realized the trade before Crowley did. 

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale’s voice was patient, even though he must have called at least twice before.

“Yeah?”

“I know you say this is not our problem,” Aziraphale said, “but perhaps it is. It’ll come back to us eventually. Can we really do nothing?”

“What do you want to do, angel?” Crowley asked. “RSVP the Dark Council? ‘Dear Sirs and _Madam_ , I would love to attend your session of obliviating torture. Here’s my plus one. We’ll take the chicken in white sauce….’”

“This device is more than holy water.” Aziraphale said. “From what I’ve studied this weekend, I think the holy water was just a side effect of it being, well, _other_.”

“Other?”

“Not of the world. Set apart. Literally the holiest.”

Crowley didn’t answer.

“They’re being oddly bold lately. And they wouldn’t have just given a treasure like that away.”

“No,” Crowley agreed. He thought of a fiery sword that had gone AWOL for a time when a certain angel had done just that. “They’re not as nice as you.”

“Does Hell have anything nearly so valuable?”

“One thing,” Crowley admitted. “But an angel with an eye on that would have to be suicidal.”

“We’ve disarmed the fiends’ side of things and perhaps put a wrench in their plans, but we haven’t the foggiest idea what Heaven might be planning. I have a feeling they’ll be worse.”

“Oh?”

“Because they will always believe whatever they do that they are right.”

Crowley mopped up the last of his toast. The funny thing about courage and fear, he thought (not for the first time), was that sometimes you were pushed so far in one direction, you managed to come out on the other side. Fear had put a tire iron in Crowley’s hand to face the devil. He’d had nothing to lose then because Aziraphale would have died beside him. He didn’t want to think what it would take to be that brave again. Didn’t want to risk it.

And yet “A pound of prevention,” it was said… He glanced up from the last of the beans. Aziraphale’s eyes were green-gold and hopeful. 

Crowley eyed the television screen next. The other diners were too occupied to notice Harrison Ford limping off screen through a backdrop. 

“So what you’re saying,” Crowley said at last, “is that you really miss that stapler on your desk—one of a kind, never jammed, have to have it back?”

Aziraphale smiled with relief, but also shuddered a little as he set down the teacup. He had, after all, just exchanged one set of fears for another. That was his brand of courage. “That’s exactly what I mean, dear boy,” he said. “And of course we’re in this together, always.”

He reached out and took Crowley’s hand. Crowley laced their fingers and held it tight. It was his reflex, sure as breathing these days, but it was also something else.

“Always” Crowley said, “you know I can’t say no to you.”

“I believe the Number-Nineteen bus will be departing for H&H in only five minutes.”

“That is very convenient, I’ll give you that.”

Crowley paid the check and they left. When the waiter came to clear the table, he was just a little confused. After all, usually the one in black ordered the coffee.

* * *

 **T** he Them took a break at lunchtime. Adam, feeling less than peckish and wondering about Anathema’s feeling, decided to take Dog for a walk up the wood trail. Pepper followed him.

“You’re not going home?”

“No. It’s our woods after all. Gotta keep an eye on it. You?”

Pepper was still carrying her sword but had sent the ketchup home with Brian, who wanted his fish and chips American-style as an experiment. She said, “I had a big breakfast. Hey, Adam?”

Adam’s heart skipped a little. It happened a lot lately, especially when she said his name. He shoved his hands into his pockets because they’d started to sweat. “Yeah?”

“Why do you suppose Italian painters made everyone Italian?”

“Not everyone.”

“Most people.”

“Like I said. No imagination.”

“I mean, I think Artemisa Gentileschi wanted Italian women to see strong Italian women in her pictures.”

“That’s a neat thought.”

“But I feel weird about it, ’cause I also don’t like that people paint the Bible as a bunch of white people.”

“I guess.”

“So, I dunno. It’s bothering me a bit. I want to be fair, you know. It’s like a paradox sometimes.”

“You’re awesome, Pepper. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

That made her smile. Adam stared straight ahead and walked stiff as a windup toy all the way down the hill. Getting a smile felt like a task of Hercules, but it always felt worth it. 

Still, it wasn’t that he didn’t want her to know he liked her. He just, well, he didn’t want her to know he liked her if it meant she wouldn’t like him. Not that he would know if he didn’t ask. (It was his own paradox.) 

Pepper added, “My mum and I are going to a protest in Soho next week. You want to come? It’s a Pride thing.”

“The good pride?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure then.”

“We’re expecting a counterprotest, a bunch of white men acting like they’re going to lose all their rights or something if other people get them. I swear, it’s like they think they’re going to go extinct.”

“They think being equal is unfair?”

“Yeah.”

“No imagination.” Adam glanced sideways and noticed something else. “You’re nervous?”

“Yeah, a little. Some police will be round to help.”

Dog trotted alongside Adam, looking back and forth between his master and Pepper. Dog had also seen Pepper stab the anthropomorphic personification of war with a fiery sword. While not inclined to the romantic, Dog felt hopeful to see his master keeping her company.

Pepper asked, “Why do you suppose there’s the bad kind of pride?”

“It’s just when you’re afraid no one knows who you are,” said Adam with a shrug. “Good pride knows who it is.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, Uncle Crowley explained all those to me awhile ago,” said Adam. He shrugged again for good measure. “A lot of sins are not what most people think. You know, Pride came before the Fall. Literally.”

“What was the devil afraid of?”

“Being replaced, least that’s what he told him.”

“But doesn’t G-d not like being replaced either? All that ‘thou shalt not’ business about statues.”

“Well, maybe G-d doesn’t like it, but She’s not _afraid_ of it.”

“She?”

“He mentioned that too. See… ”

A strong wind hit them at a crossroads and Adam broke off. They stood a moment, watching it toss the branches in the trees, throwing shadows and light helter-skelter. The wood grew darker, like a cloud had passed in front of the sun. 

Dog whimpered.

Pepper shivered. “What do you suppose that was?” she asked.

“It wasn’t really anything,” Adam admitted, but he’d shivered too. “Except…”

The clouds overhead hadn’t moved. But the woods were growing darker. Again, the wind shifted and Adam thought he smelled something rotten. Dog growled as he made a fist and Pepper tightened her hand on the plastic sword. Something buzzed and she brought her hand down with a slap on the back of the other. The buzzing stopped.

For two seconds.

Then came the swarm.

* * *


	8. Chapter the Eighth – The Masked Dancers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He had talked with Aziraphale about Raphael, a long, long time ago._

* * *

**H** astur had been up all night, lurking. He always felt better after a good lurk. It got things done. He and Duke Ligur had been expert lurkers. They could out-lurk anyone.

Now Hastur strode purposefully through iron gates that screamed on their hinges with literally voices stolen from tortured souls. Across the gates’ lintel were the words _Lasciate ogni speranza, voi che intrate_ —not because Dante was right, but because the devil is well read in poetry and he liked the sound of it. Every company needs a motto.

_[Author’s note: There had been several suggestions before this one, of course. Beelzebub had volunteered, “We’ll give you Hell,” and the late Ligur had offered, “Over thirty-five billion served.” Dagon had suggested, “Do your worst,” to which Crowley couldn’t help but add in passing, “And we’ll do our best.”]_

None of the expansions of Hell over the centuries had involved expanding the office space, or even getting a second water cooler. That would have been something _nice_. 

John Milton had poetically called the capital of Hell Pandemonium. Its residents called it work. Its main office was one seemingly endless floor. And the dreary cubicles were overhung with long, low ceiling lights, all the headache-inducing, florescent kind. All of them had either gone out centuries ago or flickered, threatening to do so. 

Something always leaked. The floor was always sticky. And no one knew what that smell was in the icebox, even after two thousand years.There were eternal bans on pastels, on cat memes, and on three-hole punches set to metric.

Only members of the Dark Council had the luxury of private offices, unless one counted as walls the endless boxes of paperwork in Dagon’s workspace. Hastur bent around one leaning pillar of DOAs (that is, Damned-on-Arrival forms).

“Morning, Fergus,” he muttered. “I need a word with the Lord of the Files. He in?”

The entity Fergus currently managing the files looked like a diseased growth the size of a basketball. It was at the desk, restocking a number of handy pamphlets with titles like, “So, you thought you were going to Heaven?” and “Well, you’ll be damned.” 

“How should I know?” it asked. “You dukes do as you please.”

Hastur snatched a clipboard off its peg. The clipboard was a crumbling thing, pocked with damp, and just sturdy enough to stick around. Dagon kept quite a few of them on hand. They added to the general entropy of Hell’s aesthetic.

Hastur said, “It might please me to tear your wings off,” but it was more a reflex than a threat. There was always time later. 

“Wait ’til I’m done the expenses at least, my lord,” said Fergus, unconcerned. “Or Lord Samæl will kill me all over again.”

Hastur turned a few discolored pages over on the moldering clipboard. “You’re lucky I’m in a hurry,” he said, and headed out with an itinerary for the day. 

On Level Five, Hastur stopped to eye the levels of the maggot pit from a catwalk. He checked them off the schedule as Normal.

By then he’d been hearing numerous pairs of footsteps following. He’d been hoping they would go away, but in the end had no such luck.

A merry voice said, “Bad morning, your disgrace.”

Hastur very slowly raised his coal-black eyes to see who dared be cheerful in his presence.

Legion was smiling— _all ten thousand of him_ (though Hastur counted twenty most days before giving up). No duke liked collective demons, but Hell without _hordes_ was like Heaven without _hosts_. Legion in particular was an excitable fellow, being most days both figuratively and literally beside himself.

Hastur asked, “May I help you, Legion?”

The first Legion, who was holding a file and beaming the brightest said, “The question of the day is, your disgrace—”

“‘May I help you?’” another finished, then they all jumped in: “Well, it could be the question of the day—if the question of the day were a thing—and if I were allowed to decide the day’s question—which I’m not. Or your question could be equally— _more_ , I meant to say _more_ —valid—of course.”

It was hard to follow Legion speaking when he was excited. At least four had opened their mouths and the reflex to look a speaker in the eye meant a lot of visual acrobatics.

Hastur asked, “Why would I need your help?”

“Another good question, sir—Only, I hear—we’re expecting—half the population of maggots to—pupate shortly—and I was told to help you out—as soon as I’m through delivering these faxes—and the last one’s for the prince but the cover letter said to give it to you.” 

The first one offered the file and added, “Small underworld, i’n’t it?”

“Suffocating,” Hastur agreed, snatching the folder away. “I’ve a meeting with the prince this afternoon, if you don’t mind taking over.”

“With Lord Beelzebub, sir?”

“With whomever I like. You think I need your permission?”

“Um, no—that’s not it—I, er, don’t want to spread false rumor, sir—fun though it is Up There—but…”

“What?” 

“I heard the prince has gone topside—with Lord Dagon, sir….”

 _Topside?_ Hastur kept his expression blank as he recalled Fergus's similar news. He thought of the “snogging” again, but that was no foot soldier’s business. “Of course they have,” he huffed. “Back by now, most likely. You’re volunteering then or not?”

“Uh—well, I was ordered—”

“Then you can see to the feeding.”

“With what, sir?” The nearest of Legion glanced over the rail of the maggot pit. What remained of its breakfast was quickly vanishing into the seething mass, though some of it still screamed. 

Hastur thought for only a moment, then pushed him over the rail. The maggots swarmed.

“And don’t bother the new eggs!” Hastur called after him. He glared at another.

“Y… yes, your disgrace.” This Legion was so terrified by the duke’s stare that he vaulted over the rail himself.

Hastur strode off in a notably better mood. With any luck the grunt would reconstitute himself by lunchtime for another round. 

Maybe angels needed help getting their hands dirty, but you didn’t need a magic rock to be worse at being a demon. You just needed practice. 

Scanning the week’s itinerary, Hastur strolled back up to the office. At the water cooler, he opened the file with a sigh. It contained a single piece of parchment with the words “Private Fax” on it. 

Hastur glared at the word and suddenly it writhed in flame, screamed a little, then shattered across the page into an illuminated manuscript—if such things were penned in hellfire instead of golden ink. At the top, inside the ornate “S” in the word “Summons,” was whimsically depicted a demon being drawn and quartered by hellhounds. 

Hastur read the message over twice, just to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood. By now his smile had disappeared. He shut the folder and headed for Lord Beelzebub’s office. The door was open.

It was empty.

“Bless it,” he muttered, to no one in particular. “You’re both in for it now.”

* * *

**A** dam stood with Pepper in Hogback Wood, one hand clapped firmly across his mouth, the other batting uselessly at a swarm of flies so dense it was a blinding cloud. 

His phone lay ringing out on the ground.

All around them there were gnats, midges, mayflies, horseflies—winged insects of too many sorts. They crawled into Adam’s hair and behind his ears, bounced at his eyes and scuttled into his clothes—biting, stinging, and scratching. Pepper was in no better shape. They both slapped at their bare arms and knees, but there was no getting rid of the bugs, and no pushing past them.

The air itself was stifling. It wasn’t just the flies or the strange darkness. There was a will in the air. It was something rotten and determined and _strong_. Very strong. That strength had worked thousands of years ago with people desperate not to be at the mercy of the elements. It had worked on whole nations back then. It had not gotten any weaker. And now, it was trying to crack Adam’s thoughts open and shove itself in.

_Too hard. Wouldn’t work. Try again later. Maybe someone else will come._

The phone rang one last time, then went to voicemail.

_“You’ve reached A.J. Crowley. You know what to do. Do it with style.”_

Dog snapped at a gnat, and turned as Adam dropped to his knees. The mut barked and leaped to his master’s side. Pepper looked down, still swinging the plastic sword.

“Adam, what’s wrong?” she said.

_Don’t you want to sleep?_

Adam did want to sleep, but Dog barked again, and Adam snapped his eyes open. He realized what they were facing and snatched up his phone. He hung up and opened the SMS. (No one in his generation bothered with voicemail.) 

He typed, <Bugs everywhere> and he hit _Send_. 

It was alright if he was busy, Adam told himself. It was absolutely fine. Crowley had once given Adam advice for being mortal when facing off against Hell. Adam could deal, now that he had his head on straight. Not that he wouldn’t prefer his godfathers to deal for him.

Adam shoved his phone into his pocket, grabbed Pepper’s hand, and stood up. She squeezed his hand once and didn’t let go. _Well_ , he thought, _there’s something good_. 

Together they glared into the swarm, and Adam realized what the mass of it was. He stretched a devil-may-care grin he knew it would recognize, and, when it drew back, he said, “Show yourself!”

Pepper raised the sword again. In the blur of the swarm, it gleamed almost like the real thing. “You’re sure you want it to talk to us?” she asked.

“No choice,” Adam whispered, but aloud he said, “I know what you are!”

The trees trembled. The ground shook. And within the swarm, dark as a cloud, the Prince of Hell manifested themselves as an enormous beast. It was not the form that’d made Officer Coleman faint, but it was still one of the Lord of the Flies’s favorites, one that challenged general conventions of anatomy—like how many eyes are allowed, and where. 

The swarm tightened around its master as the monster loomed, impressively rank with the stench of rotting meat. The beast took a step forward. Poison leached from its talons, and worms and spiders fled the soil.

“I know _who_ you are,” Adam said. “You're Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies.”

The mind-numbing thoughts still hammered on and now a voice joined them.

“IT DOES YOU LITTLE GOOD TO KNOW WHAT I AM, ADAM YOUNG.”

“Little—not none,” Adam pushed back defiantly.

Pepper shielded her nose and mouth from the stink. “You’re not welcome here, you know,” she said. “You weren’t then. You’re not now, not ever.”

The shadows doubled. A horrible creaking behind them told Adam things were about to get worse. The stink of corpses was joined by the stench of a fish market left to sun. 

Beelzebub said, “YOU HAVEN’T MET DAGON, HAVE YOU, ADAM?”

Adam gagged on another fly as his stomach heaved. He swallowed hard but the malaise was only growing. He dug his phone from his shorts again.

“Who are you calling?” Pepper asked.

Adam typed, <And fish?> _Send._

“NONE OF THAT,” growled the scaled beast behind them. Beelzebub nodded what must by its location have been its head. The swarms thickened. The phone’s bars collapsed to zero, the battery emptied, and the screen went dead.

Adam hissed and stuffed the phone away. “No one, I guess.” He gagged on another fly, then spat. “Look, what do you want? I told you, I’m not interested in your plans.”

“OUR PLANS ARE THE CONCERN OF EVERY HUMAN ON THIS PLANET.”

Adam clutched the dead phone in his pocket. “You know, you really don’t need my godfathers mad at you.”

“That’s right, so back off.” Pepper clung to Adam’s arm with one hand and brandished the sword like a fly swatter. “We’ve got friends in high and low places.”

“FUNNY YOU SHOULD MENTION THEM,” said the monster called Dagon.

“WE’RE IN NEED OF A HOSTAGE,” Beelzebub explained. The too many red eyes narrowed in Adam’s direction. “JUST ONE WILL DO.” 

One arm—thick as a tree trunk—reached out.

“Get back!” Pepper swung the sword but a hand like a titan’s talon crashed down between them. Dagon backhanded her into an oak. She dropped like a sack of potatoes and moaned. 

“Pepper!” Adam shouted.

In the same instant, the monster’s other scaled hand grabbed for Adam. Dog bit it hard on the little finger and Dagon cursed the sky red. 

Adam scrambled up the slope towards the trees. A rolling stink of wind hit from behind, then claws latched him to the forest floor. Dog sicced himself on Beelzebub’s heel, his eyes glowing their infernal rage, but the Prince of Hell did not flinch.

Pepper pushed herself upright and tried to see past the swarm and the red haze. “I’m fine, Adam, hang on!”

Adam locked eyes with the one red pair most logically situated on Beelzebub’s abominable face. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said.

“I’M NOT THE ONE YOU SHOULD FEAR,” Beelezbub snarled.

Adam forced himself to laugh again. “That’s funny. ’Cause I’ll bet your terrified of _him_ , both of you are.”

“WATCH YOUR TONGUE, MORTAL.”

“I _know_ you are. I read your mind back then. You’re the Prince of Hell? Well, he’s the _King_ . I bet _he_ reads your minds all the time. You think I don’t know?”

“WE’RE TAKING YOU BACK TO HELL, AND YOU CAN FIND OUT FOR YOURSELF,” Beelzebub hissed. 

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that if I were you,” Adam said.

“AND WHY IS THAT?”

And that was when an annoyed voice, belonging to someone with very good timing, said, “Because he has a witch.”

* * *

**C** rowley did not get Adam’s messages because Crowley was currently in Heaven, but not in the nice way. He’d, understandably, set his mobile to silent.

Presently, he stood in a hallway somewhere on the sixth floor, staring at the blank walls where there should have by all accounts been signs for the library, or at least for _something_. Why Heaven, which was known to sending its bloody signs everywhere, hadn’t the sense to put a few on the walls was beyond him. 

He tried to recall Aziraphale’s directions, but he’d been too distracted, he admitted to himself now, by his angel’s description of the library in particular.

_“Once you’re there, it’s a matter of knowing what you’re looking for. The book is stored under ‘d,’ if that helps.”_

_“D?”_

_“For ‘damnation.’”_

_“Angel”_ —For the sake of at least one more jest before things got serious, Crowley had dropped his chin and let his golden eyes peek above his sunglasses— _“are you telling me that your people might go to that library looking for ‘damnation’—and actually find it?”_

_“It’s not that funny.”_

_“It is a little though.”_

_“And you’re sure you’ll remember the rest?”_

_“Mind like a steel… thingamajig, mine.”_

“A trap,” Crowley muttered, belatedly, still eyeing the bare walls. “Like a steel trap.”

No signs bothered to appear on the wall for all his glaring at it, so Crowley continued down the hall at a steady and very practiced stride.

Memories of any home, even an unhappy home, live deeper than skin. They shape the first thoughts before words. They are the theater where dreams are staged. They give the mind its first corners to hide in. Crowley would have known this place had changed with his eyes closed. He could feel it, and that meant he had no idea where the library was.

If he found it, he thought, if he found it and so found Aziraphale’s desk, he was going to get that stapler. Just to wave it under his angel’s nose and smirk like it had been easy. Like it really had been all he’d been thinking about. 

Crowley almost missed the march of a hundred booted feet until they was nearly upon him. A quartermaster and a small host of angels rounded the bend. Crowley looked left, then right, then drove his shoulder into the nearest door on the assumption that nothing past it could be worse than soldiers finding a traitor in their midst. 

He stumbled into an empty foyer, turned and shut the door again, then cracked it, just a little, to watch the troop march by. 

The quartermaster was saying, “Step lively, angels! You’re late as it is.”

Crowley eyed the sparrow wings on every soldier’s back. “Guardians? For soldiers?” he muttered. “Oh, this is a new low—Erk!” 

“What are you doing here?”

Crowley spun as a hand landed on his shoulder. His back hit a wall. He would have run, but found himself staring into a face that froze his feet, because that face was impossible. 

Until he remembered it wasn’t.

If gravity had been kinder, it would have been his own.

* * *

**A** nathema Device had, before leaving the cottage, packed a totebag. Not with much. Her sense about the future included insights on how much her back and calves would hurt once she’d walked far enough. Unless the totebag itself would serve as a bludgeoning weapon, she kept things light. 

Most witches have encountered at least one monologue by the age of twenty. You could count on sorcerers, demon lords, and certain soapbox types to monologue. It was just psychology. You learned not to waste the opportunity. 

Beelzebub’s speech had given Anathema plenty of time with the fishing wire. It was this, not an oak tree, that Pepper hit when Dagon batted her aside. Impact on a translucent weave was far more forgiving on mortals than striking hardwood. Anathema waited until the right moment to join the girl by the tree roots.

“How real is that?” she’d asked of the sword before Pepper could speak.

“I… I guess it’s real plastic.”

“That’s good enough, trust me.”

In a moment Anathema had pulled out a jar of fast-drying, ruby-red nail polish. She quickly painted a series of bone script _kanji_ onto the foil blade, muttering something that probably sounded like dark runes to the girl. Actually, they were eight-stroke drills from her seventh-grade Japanese calligraphy class.

“ _Soku, roku, dou, teki, saku, ryaku, taku, taku…_ ’kay. Here, take it.”

“Now it’s a real sword?” Pepper asked.

“If you think it is,” Anathema explained quickly, but added, “Maybe think of it as the world’s sharpest sushi knife.”

And Pepper grinned.

At that point, Anathema pulled from her bag the other part of her plan, because Adam had said, _“I wouldn’t be too sure of that if I were you,”_ and witches appreciate a flair for the dramatic in the right place.

She raised her weapon as Beelzebub turned around, and she fired it straight into that bulging, buggy face.

Beelzebub screamed. They collapsed to the forest floor, all at once shrunk to their most humanlike form, which was easier to maintain in pain. They were clawing at their eyes. 

Around them, insects were dropping onto their backs, legs curling inward, wings twitching in a mass of death throes, the swarm immediately decimated. 

The other beast, who resembled Cthulhu's less-eldritch-but-still-uncanny cousin, lurched forward. Pepper leapt between them and brandished the sword. She swung at Dagon’s reaching claw and the demon tottered back screaming in pain, a terrible slice up his arm. He, too, collapsed into a much smaller, scaly mess of whimpers. He kicked his legs quickly to back away until his shoulders hit a tree and there was nowhere left to run.

Beelzebub wailed, “Balaam’s _ass_ , what is that? Diluted holy water?”

Anathema gave the can of pesticide another good, hard shake. The demon squinted painfully up at her as she took aim.

“This,” she said, “is organic ‘Pest Soldier’s Home Pest Spray.’ It’s an import. From America.”

Beelzebub’s pain was, for just a moment, overcome by confusion. “But witches are supposed to like nature.”

Anathema crooked her finger over the trigger and smiled horribly. “I’m not that kind of witch.”

Dagon tried to stand, but Pepper raised the bloodied sword point in warning. Dog barked and ran to her heel in support, letting his red eyes glow madly. He was loving this. That was enough to reduce Dagon to uncontrollable sobs.

Anathema said, “And this works on outdoor and indoor insects, so don’t try anything funny.”

Adam had found his feet by now. He shook dead bugs from his hair. “Told you!” he shouted.

Beelzebub clawed at the corpses of flies littered around them, gasping in shuddering, heaving breaths. “How dare you… How _dare_ you! Do you know who I am?”

“Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies,” Anathema deadpanned. “You were, like, a _side_ character in the Gospels, weren’t you? That would make your friend… Dagana? Or is it Dagon these days? Sorry, my Akkadian’s a bit rusty. Phoenician though, right? Scaly fish-god of grain?”

“You ought to be impressed,” said Beelzebub

“I don’t believe in demons.”

“Even when—?”

“Oh, I _know_ you exist,” Anathema interrupted coldly, “but I don’t _believe_ in you.” She took a step forward and Beelzebub immediately shuffled back. Anathema said, “What I _believe_ is that you have no right to be here. And what I _believe_ is that I have enough spray left in this can to melt your eyes out. And what I _believe_ is that all that means you owe _me_ answers, not the other way around. Now _what are you doing here_?”

“We’re going to end the world,” said Dagon.

“Dagon!”

“My lord, there’s nothing they can do about it.”

“You already failed ending the world once; what makes you think you can manage it this time?” asked Anathema.

Beelzebub pointed at Adam. “We don’t need you. Heaven and Hell are going all-in this time. There is nothing you can do to stop us.”

Anathema didn’t flinch. “You and your master lost visitation rights to Mr. Young when he altered reality. I was there. She was there. Even Dog was there.”

Dog barked in agreement.

“So, whether the world ends or not, if you violate this little peace of ours again, I will end you first. Exorcism? Holy water? Go ahead, pick your poison—I have a lot of options.”

Her hand slipped back into the bag at her hip and Beelzebub looked from it to the spray can and back again. At last, the demon prince scrambled to their feet and backed away. They grabbed Dagon by the sleeve.

“Let’s go.”

“Faster, or I’ll change my mind,” Anathema snapped.

Beelzebub managed to gather the shards of a sneer. “Fine.” They spat. “Have your little victory—but you can’t banish Heaven’s Wrath, can you?”

“Stay around, and you’ll see what I can do,” said Anathema.

The two demons didn’t even bother to run. Beelzebub grabbed Dagon’s lapels and with a snap, they corkscrewed into the soil, making a beeline for Hell. 

A small geyser of sulfurous gas twisted up in their wake.

Anathema sighed and dropped the can of bug spray into her bag. She pulled out a water bottle and took a drink.

“Is that holy water?” asked Adam, hurrying to meet her. “Did you have to rob a church?”

“No, it’s Britta-filtered water and I got it from my tap.” Anathema shrugged. 

“Wicked,” Adam laughed. 

Pepper looked over the “runes” on her sword. “It just feels like plastic,” said Pepper. “How did that work?”

“Belief’s a powerful thing, and demons go in for anything in writing,” said Anathema. “Trust me, you could have slain War with that thing.”

_[Author’s note: In certain book-to-TV adaptations, little things are often changed for symbolic effect to preserve truths in the visual medium, but sometimes they survive into commemorative fiction.]_

Pepper said, “I’d rather not do that again, thank you.” She very carefully put the sword back in its plastic sheath.

“Why were they talking about Heaven _and_ Hell?” asked Adam.

“I’m not sure,” Anathema admitted, putting the water bottle away. She climbed the slope and pulled an end to undo the knot of the fishing wire. There was a _twang_ as it went slack and coiled into a tangle of loops. “We should head back to Tadfield. I want to research something better. Then you can call your godparents, Adam.”

Adam checked his phone. The bars were all back. So was half the battery. He kicked at the dead flies. With the thrill of the rescue wearing off, he was shaking a little. “Thank you both, and you, Dog.”

Dog barked in appreciation.

The three headed back down the forest path, leaving the horde of dead flies and the smoking sulfur pit behind. 

* * *

**C** rowley opened and closed his mouth a few times. His heart was slamming against his chest like a mad thing in a cage. There was pain. Why was there pain? 

“What are you doing here?” said the angel again.

Crowley realized only one of them was wearing a Crowley face—and that it wasn’t Crowley. 

You could hate them. You could hate them if it helped, if it put distance between you and the pain. You could hate them, all of them, for what they’d done to you, and did to you still. But it was harder when you remembered that you didn’t know. You didn’t know if _all_ of them hated you. It was better not to think of it, but sometimes, despite yourself, you hoped some of them didn’t.

But in moments like those, Crowley hated himself.

He shoved Raphael away. “Honestly,” he said, in his best prim and angelic voice, because he couldn’t be himself now—not and survive this. “Honestly, of all the rude welcomes, I wouldn’t expect one from you.”

Maybe Raphael noticed. Maybe. He was a doctor, after all. The first doctor. Had trained all the rest. Crowley’s shove hadn’t sent him very far, like he’d been ready for it. 

He said, with a strange deliberateness, “Aziraphale, was it?” 

Crowley straightened his borrowed lapels. “Who else would I be, the pope?”

“I thought it looked like you.” Raphael reached past Crowley and there was a click. The archangel had locked the hallway door. He said again, “What are you doing here?”

He said it like a doctor checking in. 

Crowley tried even harder to ignore the pain. “I don’t believe I owe you any explanation—”

A voice boomed from an inner room, “Raphael, are you in, buddy?” 

“That would be Lord Gabriel,” Raphael said calmly, and before Crowley could answer, the archangel slid open another door, this one almost invisible in the wall. He shoved Crowley through it (far more effectively than Crowley had shoved him) and said, “Stay quiet.” 

The door shut as Crowley stumbled backwards. It took a moment for him to recover his slack jaw. 

He had talked with Aziraphale about Raphael, a long, long time ago. They’d had to. There’d been an incident, a meeting in Assyria, when Crowley had been undercover, getting even with Duke Asmodeus as a favor to Aziraphale—because even back then he’d help his angel on the flimsiest of excuses and ol’ Moddy had been frankly asking for it. But Crowley had been shocked when Aziraphale recognized his “angel disguise.” And Aziraphale, seeing how much it hurt to be recognized, had promised, sincerely, that he would never bring up Raphael as Crowley’s brother again, not unless Crowley was ready.

He wasn’t ready now.

 _Aziraphale_ , Crowley reminded himself. He had to be Aziraphale now. For both their sakes. 

He heard some other door open, heard Raphael say, “And how do we feel today?”

“More than recovered.” Gabriel had two tones that Crowley knew of. Obnoxiously enthused and nefariously petty.

“For the sake of paperwork, the source of those wounds…” 

“All in the line of duty…” 

Crowley backed away and hit something in the near-dark. It went _clunk_ . Turning warily he realized he was in some kind of private room. The _clunk_ was a desk. It was covered in scrolls. One lay open. It was penned with music, written in the interlocking circles of Enochian measures. Near these pages stood a small collection of vials in a stand, each like a miniature lava lamp pulsing a favorite chord. 

Crowley tore his eyes away from it. He looked up at… a ceiling? Aziraphale said most angels hated the idea of being unobserved. 

Maybe there was another door out of here. Crowley squinted as he followed the wall. He bungled into something else. Dust rose from the collision. It glinted like sparks of burning salt. Crowley let his fingers fall through it. They landed on something tactile, familiar. Another desk. In the same room. But different. 

Crowley didn’t have to look down to know. He looked down because he couldn’t believe it.

It was an architect’s drawing board. 

_He kept it…_

The board was propped at an angle. On it was pinned a parchment scored for drawing in three dimensions. 

_He kept it?_

A square and compass were lain across the page. A bit of charcoal pencil had rolled into one corner. A battered toolbox, blackened on one edge by an unexpected supernova, sat to one side, just as its owner had left it.

_All of it?_

Crowley’s fingers fell into the box without his permission. Almost immediately he found, by its hard smooth facets and needle-bright angles, the crystalline tool that was an angelic spectrometer. It was far finer than any device a human could make. Crowley turned it in his hands, rolled its ridges across his fingertips. He’d made this himself. He was a planner, a craftsman. He’d built his own tools: And he’d bundled starstuff with this guide.

Crowley winced, and clutched at his chest. He could name the hurt now. It was the agony of losing an arm. The horror of seeing it on the amputation table—of realizing a part of you was undeniably lost ahead of the rest, that you would bury a piece of you early but the soul of it would haunt you… 

When the door slid open and shut again, Raphael saw Crowley-as-Aziraphale sitting on the floor, the tool clutched in one fist. The healer crossed the room quickly, sat in front of Crowley and put a hand on his shoulder. His aura softened the edges of the pain. Even in the dim light of the room, Raphael threw no shadow. Crowley tried to remember, had he looked like that once? Hadn’t everyone in the architect wing said he looked like that? Like his brother. 

His twin.

“Are you sick?” Raphael asked, his familiar face open and concerned.

“Not at all,” said Crowley, desperate to be Aziraphale. “Sorry to disappoint. I’m as fit as a fiddle.”

Raphael’s stork wings threw bits of blue and onyx light as they fluttered worriedly in the ether. He drew back his hand and folded it with the other. “It’s alright,” he said. “You’re safe here.”

“What?”

“Anyone who walks through my door is under my wing. Even you, Aziraphale.”

He kept calling him that. _Why does it bother you?_ Crowley thought. _What do you want him to call you? Not that name. That name’s dead, a severed limb, biohazardous waste, trash for the fire. That name was foolish and trusting and wrong. Its song was a lie. It deserved what it got…_

Crowley swallowed. “Aziraphale…” he echoed, like it were some defensive rune. (It was.) “How refreshing not to be attached to some damnable epithet. I do appreciate that you know who I am.”

“Everyone knows your face.”

“Mmpf.” Crowley rolled the spectrometer between his fingers. In his best miffed angel voice he said, “Took a bit of a wrong turn, is all, I’m afraid. To be quite honest, I’m just here for a book.”

“A book?”

“Yes, a book. I meant not to return otherwise, but I was evicted so hastily last time…” 

“You came back for a book?”

“Whatever else for?” It was hard, _so_ hard, not to make that question a stab.

Raphael said, “You’re on the wrong floor.”

Crowley’s mouth snapped shut. 

“For the library.” Raphael straightened his robes and tucked his wings. “I’m surprised you’d forget, Aziraphale. Didn’t you used to work there?”

“I… was taking the long way.” Crowley eyed the door. “You’re not going to turn me in?”

“I’m a healer first. Still, you’re clearly not thinking straight and shouldn’t be left alone.”

“I’ve been quite fine alone so far….”

“No, you haven’t.” Raphael turned around and Crowley didn’t catch the color that flickered out of his eyes behind a calm shade of green. “Clearly you’re forgetting something.”

“A mind like a steel trap, mine.” Crowley jutted out his chin defiantly.

Raphael jutted right back. “It so happens I was about to head to the library,” he said. “You’re not going to find a book here, especially not in my brother’s and my room.” 

Crowley leaned on the wall and stood up, straightening his jacket. “This is, um… That is, you… seem to have kept his things?”

“Just as he left them.” 

“As if they’d ever let him come back,” Crowley scoffed.

“Nothing’s impossible.” Raphael headed for the door. “Lord Gabriel should be gone by now. I’ll make sure the coast is clear, then we’ll get you your book.”

“And my stapler, if we can manage,” said Crowley, diving for safely. “It’s a nice stapler. Hate for someone else to take it.”

Raphael laughed before he left the room. Maybe it was a sad laugh. Maybe Crowley imagined it. 

* * *

**A** ziraphale moved through Hell at his most Crowley-like saunter. He’d never quite gotten the hang of the hips; but by the way Crowley walked, neither had Crowley.

Aziraphale had been to Hell before. There’d been a bag over his head for much of the journey. It hadn’t seemed prudent to stick around too long after, so Aziraphale had never gotten a feel for the place beyond the halls between the exit and the Dark Council’s meeting chamber. 

By the time Aziraphale reached the eighth level, he decided it was best to take no chances. He needed a guide.

He’d seen Legion running back and forth (or both at once) all morning, and so around the next bend, Aziraphale slipped into an alcove and stuck out a foot. 

Soon after, there was a jolt. And then a bucket of thumbscrews spilled across the floor. One of Legion fell on his face after them, and proceeded to curse loudly. 

“Keep right, you bloody devil—”

Aziraphale had him by his jacket in an instant, and put him against the wall. 

“Who dya—?”

“It’s me, you dimwit.” Aziraphale was very, very good at imitating Crowley’s voice. He’d had six thousand years of at-times-sporadic-but-always-studious observation. 

“Y… Master Crowley!”

 _Master?_ Aziraphale was thoroughly amused and let himself grin devilishly to show it. He said, “If you so much as utter a word, you can’t imagine what I’ll do to you, is that understood?”

Legion clammed up immediately, which was good, because Aziraphale really couldn’t have imagined anything particularly threatening.

“Busy, are we?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean, well, I mean, I was—that is, a few of me, sir— on my way to the maggot pits for their feeding today. We’re a bit low on food, so I volunteered.”

“You… what?”

“It’s nice to be needed.”

“That’s horrible,” said Aziraphale, adding at Legion’s confused look, “that you’re calling that _nice_. We’re demons. We’re not nice, and don’t you forget it.”

“Uh, no sir, won’t sir. Sorry I said anything, sir. Please don’t throw me in a vat of holy water, sir!”

“Well, forget about that in any case. You’re going to help me.”

“Um, am I?”

“You’re going to take me down to the Ninth Floor.”

“I… What?”

“Is there something there we should be avoiding?”

“But that’s where he… that is, that’s where the… where His Majesty…”

“What, Ol’ Horns? Naturally.”

“You won’t make me talk to His Infernal Darkness, sir?”

Aziraphale considered a bluff but, no, it was too serious a matter. He answered, “I suppose I don’t have time today.” Legion visibly relaxed, so Aziraphale added, “Well, get going before my schedule opens up.”

* * *

**C** haos is sometimes referred to as Pandemonium. This is incorrect. Pandemonium is very, very organized. If mortals were as orderly about good deeds as the capital of Hell is about working evil, Heaven would be out of a job.

Its rivers are, of course, fire. There is a certain aesthetic to uphold, after all. 

A little before Aziraphale had cornered Legion, Beelzebub and Dagon staggered to a bank just outside the same iron gates Hastur had entered earlier that day. 

They both ignored the drawbridge. Dagon discarded his sliced up jacket and in nothing but leggings and a corset went for a swim. He crawled out on the far bank, shaking sparks from his long hair, then turned back with a beckoning claw. The gesture would have been too familiar for the rank discrepancy between them, but there was so much enthusiasm in it, Beelzebub did not care. The Prince of Hell dove without hesitation and took the hand Dagon offered climbing out at the other side. 

Then the prince stood and took a deep breath, and sent out a silent call.

Droning rose from every corner of the realm, faint at first, but then a rushing roar, Clouds of flies and gnats gathered like a storm, then descended to greet their master. Beelzebub cradled handfuls in their palms.

“Hello, my babiezzz,” they buzzed a blissful sigh, adopting a few hundred from the swarm. “Oh, you don’t know how naked I feel without you.”

The flies made loop-de-loops before settling into a comfortable haze around them. 

Dagon rubbed a bit of river fire into his closing wound to salve it. “It’s getting thin,” he worried.

“Of course it is,” said Beelzebub. “The Torch is gone. It’ll be back soon enough.”

Dagon stared up at the starless shadow of the cavern that mocked the sky. “What do we tell Hastur?”

“We tell him we were out for a lark.”

“Snogging?”

“That’ll settle him.”

There was a brief pause as they both delayed going inside.

“I’ve never been good at lying, truth be told,” said Dagon. His scales might have gone pink again. It was hard to tell in the hellish light.

“How so?”

“Paperwork,” Dagon said. “It’s far better to make the truth so unbearable that it crushes the soul under the weight.”

Beelzebub laughed. “This is why you’re allowed in my office, you know.”

“Not for the snogging?”

The prince’s next laugh was a little weak. They thought, _No wonder Crowley never comes home. Get away long enough and you start to think thoughts you never would dare down here_. 

And they were pleasant thoughts. Very pleasant. Tempting, even to a demon.

“But I hope I don’t have to lie,” Dagon said, and leaned close, and—damn everything—that was a tempting smile.

But then a voice called, “Lord Beelzebub,” and in an instant they were both standing straight and turning around like nothing had been happening at all.

“Been looking all over for you,” said Hastur. There was something stiff about his walk. He carried a folder.

Beelzebub turned on their annoyance immediately. “Hazztur, don’t you have duty with the maggot pitzz or something today—?”

“He’s asking for you.”

Beelzebub lost their voice. The flies knotted tighter, defensive.

Hastur stopped in front of them both and Beelzebub realized he looked positively terrified. (It was sometimes hard to tell. He was so pale anyway.) He took the page from the folder and handed it over. It was shaking. He was shaking. 

“This morning,” he said. “Soon as the scouts saw you two arrive, I came down. Request for your presence.”

The river hissed and boiled under the drawbridge. The gates creaked as they screamed in a silent wind. Because “request” didn’t mean what it should mean. Not here.

Beelzebub stared at the capital “S” with no expression. There was no telltale bob of fear in their throat, no clenching of fists. Beelzebub said coolly, “I see. What’s brought this about, I wonder.”

“I swear to him it wasn’t me,” Hastur said.

“I know,” said Beelzebub, because Hastur and Ligur had had a thing, and there’d been an unspoken rule, really. Snitches and stitches, and all that. 

Hastur had the capacity to look apologetic, but it was so rare, Beelzebub nearly missed it. “Just him?” Hastur asked, like he hadn’t read the page, like it might change at the last minute. You never knew. “Just you and him?”

Beelzebub looked quickly at Dagon, who was less skilled at hiding fear.

Because all three of them knew what this meant. All three of them had gotten a Summons before—capital “S” intended. There was hardly a demon who hadn’t. Six thousand years is a very long time.

Beelzebub said to Dagon, “You’ll see about the necessary paperwork, about our excursion?”

“Yes, my prince,” said Dagon. “Unless you think I should accompany you.”

Beelzebub shook their head, then threw the fax back in Hastur’s face. They said, “Hastur, didn’t you need to feed maggots today or something?”

“Yes, your disgrace…”

“Well, between the two of you, something better be done by the time I get back. The world won’t end itself.”

And then they walked off, under the Latin on the gates, towards the lift (which in Hell was better called a drop). The gates rattled open and the line of ten buttons—nine levels plus the H&H building—lit up in a crooked row of numbers, all in Comic Sans.

Closed systems, according to Edward Lorenz, are predictable. Hell is a closed system. The plans of the Almighty might be ineffable, but the devil settles for making himself _inevitable_ . It’s more reliable in a way. Comforting even. If only… No. _Only_ because it’s familiar. 

At the drop, Beelzebub turned back and saw Hastur and Dagon still standing at the gates: Hastur’s mucky hands were wringing the fire out of the parchment. He’d hunched his shoulders like a whipping boy. Dagon was staring after the prince, afraid.

Beelzebub forced a smile, then stabbed a finger at Number Nine.

* * *

**C** rowley had seen the libraries of Heaven in Aziraphale’s dreams, but the vaulted globe of it was still astonishing. It hung midway down the birdcage like a kind of polished, inside out planet. It rotated, slowly, allowing passersby glimpses: now a few wood furnishings, now a brightly bound set of encyclopedias… 

Crowley looked up as he and Raphael entered. It was unsettling, seeing angels essentially walking on the ceiling. Raphael kept just enough of a lead that Crowley could duck behind shelves or trolleys as needed. They didn’t speak, except at one point, when they passed the gleaming desks of olive wood where Aziraphale used to work.

“I’m pretty sure it’s that one…,” Raphael had barely said, before Crowley snatched a certain office item from a drawer. Crowley smiled innocently and Raphael added, “Odd you don’t recall.”

Because they were still playing this charade.

The books and scrolls in the library were innumerable. Titles were alphabetized in Enochian, which is a very efficient language. Together, Crowley and his brother found ‘d’ fairly quickly, and Raphael pulled a red quarto from the second shelf immediately. Crowley recognized it.

He said, “That’s…”

“This?” Raphael looked puzzled for just a moment, then he held up the book and the mother-of-pearl lettering flashed. “This is what I’ve come here for. What are you looking for, Aziraphale?”

He strolled down towards the ‘h’ aisle and Crowley followed.

Crowley said, “You know, it’s a funny coincidence—”

“I suppose you’ll just have to wait until I’ve finished with it,” Raphael interrupted. He pinched another book (this one was blue) from the next shelf and then strolled off, both tucked under one arm. He headed for the walkway to the nearest stair. 

Raphael didn’t look back, because of course he expected Crowley to keep up. Crowley cursed silently realizing as much. Now that he dared to think on it even a little, he could remember his brother being gentle, yes. And quiet. And careful—meticulous even. His brother was born to be a healer, _the_ healer, and being a healer required such things.

But Crowley could also recall the archangel Raphael holding down a screaming young Sandalphon after a supernova. He remembered Raphael healing wings that had been seared by a million-degree burns—by plunging his own hands into the fire. Raphael knew his craft so well, not two days after he was born, that he’d mended the burns without a scar. And then Raphael, archangel of healing, head surgeon of Heaven, had demanded that Prince Lucifer pass an order for safety precautions. 

Because Raphael could be a blessed _bastard_ when he had to be.

Crowley counted seven floors before Raphael came to a door in a closed off area and pushed it open. Hinges in Heaven never squealed. He slipped inside and Crowley followed, staggered back as the door fell shut behind them both. 

The air here did not drift with music and golden light. It was heavy, thick, and _hot_ , writhing like the inside of an oven. Its light was fire red. 

The light came from a sea of luminous brimstone, rolling out to the horizon, crashing in and out from a crystal shore, striped with yellow, orange, and blue. 

Crowley drew a deep, careful breath and Raphael tucked his wings tighter in the face of the roiling sea. The tide stopped just short of his bare feet, and Crowley felt an inexplicable fear rise in him. 

“Raphael,” he said, carefully, “what is this place?”

“A storeroom,” said Raphael. “We used to keep the Flood waters here.”

“And now the opposite?”

“Change in company policy.”

Crowley remembered the threat of the “rain bow” and seethed at its misleading promise.

Raphael turned back the red cover of the book and the lettering threw rainbows. Without looking up, he said, “I’m sorry.” Before Crowley could wonder what about, he’d reached back a hand and said, “I’ll be needing that.”

Crowley knew what he meant. He drew the spectrometer from his pocket. Even after so long, he knew how to fit his hand around it perfectly. He passed it over with reluctance. 

Raphael’s eyes were only on the tool. “Just a moment, and I’ll be done,” he said.

The archangel held his place on one page and held the tool up towards the lake. He turned it expertly and light beams interlocked, caught at its heart, then shone out in all directions—a broken ring of light. The breaks were shadow, some thick and some thin, all standing in parallel: the DNA of elements, decoded in the most basic primordial way, by light and darkness. 

Crowley had designed it that way. You had to know the atoms to know the stars. For a moment he had to shut his eyes again, to wince. He’d wanted so much to know everything.

Unhurried, Raphael looked from ring to book in careful study, now and then making small adjustments in how he held the device. The colored light spun through red, then yellow, then green, then blue… 

Crowley could read the composition of the lake as well as he could any star. But he felt defensive and so he wanted to show off. He walked right up to the edge of the water and stuck his hand in. Behind him, Raphael drew a sharp breath.

Crowley cupped a bit of fire in his palm. It steamed green. “This isn’t Heaven’s work, is it?” he asked innocently.

“It's brimstone,” said Raphael. “You know that.’

“That certainly doesn’t sound like an answer,” Crowley tsked. “I mean, it’s not as if I’ve spent much time anywhere else, but there’s something familiar about it, I would say.”

Raphael shut the book. He closed his hands around the crystal. The lights winked out. 

The title of the book was _Damnation: Methods and Procedures_.

“I come down here quite a lot,” he said. “I have a medical interest.”

“Dangerous for even angels, is it?”

“It’s not a stable compound,” said Raphael. “A few bits one way or the other and the results would be horrendous.”

“I assume you mean more than usual,” said Crowley. He gave Raphael the disapproving glance Aziraphale threw at euphemisms these days. “ _Which_ bits?”

Raphael drew a deep breath. “Has Hell ever tried to neutralize holy water?”

There it was. “I think I’m beginning to understand the trouble,” said Crowley. “Have you lot tried _not_ making bargains with Hell?”

“I’ve said my piece to Michael. He said to find a fix for it.”

Raphael looked across the fire, then at the door, as if to reassure himself. 

He went on, “You know how it is, Aziraphale. Despite the war, there have always been… back channels. What with no archangels going beyond the Veil since the Fall, all orders are absolute. No questions asked.”

“Clearly.”

“So the interpretation of those orders are left solely to the angels.”

“And some work with demons?” Crowley suggested.

“Rule is only the four cardinal archangels can say when those times aren’t punishable.”

“I would think that means that only they dare to do it,” Crowley suggested.

“That would be accurate,” Raphael sighed roughly. “What I’m trying to say, Aziraphale, is that when I heard about your trial, it sounded a lot like hypocrisy to me.”

“Well, I’m not surprised.” Crowley made a show of dusting his hands slowly, to buy time, to breathe. “But do be careful, Raphael. Talk like that might make you Fall.”

Raphael pulled the other book from beneath his arm, the one with a blue cover. He took something from his pocket, a piece of paper, and creased it, then slipped it between two pages. Putting the two books together, he offered both. 

“I don’t think they’ll want you back in awhile, so take these. Since you’re on the topic,” he explained.

“Your recommendation?”

“You could always use another book, Aziraphale.”

Crowley accepted the books with a slow, careful motion. “Thank you. You really shouldn’t have.” He eyed the spectrometer. So did Raphael, but in the end the archangel put it in a pocket of his robes and stared out across the roiling fire.

“I’ve still work to do,” he said. “I don’t know what these new stores are for, but if they’re going to judge humans, I need to find a way to prevent casualties among the angels.”

“They’re new?”

“Yes. They’ve been in the works since the Philosopher’s Stone was relocated.”

Crowley thought about this. “It won’t work,” he said at last. “Anything made with hellfire is never going to not hurt angels.”

“You’re fine, Aziraphale.”

He wasn’t.

“But I’ve been trying this for years,” he went on. “And I’m convinced. Because hellfire _heals_ demons,” said Raphael patiently. “I’m not going to give up.”

Crowley wanted to admire his brother, but he felt jealous. Maybe that wasn’t fair, but he couldn’t help it. He thought of all the hypocrisy in Heaven. _If I had rebelled a bit more cautiously, I might be running the place_ , he thought bitterly.

He swallowed, then nodded. “Best of luck to you,” he croaked. “Do take care of yourself, won’t you? Michael’s a f—n’ bastard these days.” He turned to go.

“One more thing…” 

Crowley looked back. He waited. Raphael hesitated, and Crowley realized there was a chance the charade wasn’t for either of their sakes, but for the sake of a story. Someone might find out. Michael might find out. There had to be a story, didn’t there? A “Sorry, had no choice, he practically twisted my arm” story, just in case.

At last, he said, “Tell me, Aziraphale… Is Crowley happy?” 

Crowley’s jaw dropped. “You… you call him…”

“The files say that’s the name he’s chosen for himself.”

Crowley insides shuddered. _The files_ . Raphael had looked at his files? _Don’t think on it. You’re not his brother right now. You’re Aziraphale, and you’re not impressed._

“Why do you care to know?” asked Crowley. 

Raphael didn’t answer. Maybe there was no answer that fit this story. Crowley tucked the books to his chest with the stapler and forced the corners of his mouth to lift, a cookie cutter smile. 

“Not that it matters to anyone here,” he said, “but, yes, he’s happy, quite happy, in fact.”

“Is he?”

“Oh yes. He’s even gotten himself an automobile. Beautiful machine made by clever humans. Very fast. He’s an excellent driver.”

Raphael did a strange thing then. He laughed. He laughed but he cried, a kind of gasp and staggered inhale, and he turned away. 

Crowley felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Anyone could mistake that laugh—unless they did the same thing; but didn’t turn away, because they wore sunglasses all the bloody time like some flash bastard. Anyone, besides someone like that, could.

Damn it. Damn everything. Everything hurt. “I’ll just be going then…”

“I’m glad you have each other.” Raphael didn’t look back. “And it’s down the stairs, first right. The exit, I mean.”

“Of course, it is.”

“Just making sure, Aziraphale.”

“I don’t need you to hold my hand.”

Raphael didn’t look at him again, and Crowley nearly ran for the door. He couldn’t look back.

* * *

**A** s Legion led the way, Aziraphale kept an eye out for reinforcements. With a bit of luck it would be a little while before the horde demon pulled himself together to present a real problem. With _a lot_ of luck, he’d be so terrified of “Crowley” that he wouldn’t bother.

Whenever Legion looked back, Aziraphale pretended to be strolling, shoulders thrown back, chin up, but the rest of the time Aziraphale couldn’t help but cringe. Bad things happened down here. They kept on happening. The echoes of the agony never quite died, even in complete silence.

“Er, left or right, your disgrace?” They’d arrived at a three-way crossroads. Legion, for a number of reasons (some logistical), could not pull himself together. “What’s so important we have to be down here?”

“I’m looking for the oldest room in Hell,” said Aziraphale matter-of-factly. “Been awhile, can’t quite recall the layout of the place. Not that any of us want to get too familiar down here, do we?”

“Course not, sir. Thought you were an exception of course.”

“Like I care what you think,” said Aziraphale. “Tell you what, if you can point it out, I’ll go about my business and you can go about yours, how’s that?”

“Better than meeting the boss,” Legion said. He pointed to the passage on the left. “That’s the way. Now, if you mind my being a little attached to my hide at the moment, I’m getting far away from here to prevent its tanning.”

“Good luck with that,” said Aziraphale, like Crowley would have, dry and caustic. He didn’t move until Legion had limped away frantically and he was alone, then he strolled down the left-hand passage.

A peaked doorway full of darkness stood at the end of it. Aziraphale stepped through and some of the shadow thinned like he’d parted a curtain. A small river of fire ran around the edge of the room, fed by spouts in the wall. Its heat made the air shimmer and pulse orange-red against the obsidian walls. Aziraphale took a few more steps and blinked so his eyes could adjust. 

Something felt… wrong.

Crowley had described the room, but he hadn’t mentioned the walls. At first, it looked like spider cracks, like the obsidian was going to shatter any minute like sugar glass. At second glance, however, it was clear the entire wall was carved with sigils, even up into the shadows of the ceiling. 

Aziraphale ran his fingers down a column. They weren’t words. They were written in circles like bits of song: They were names. Or they had been. Not one didn’t look broken somehow. Aziraphale dropped his hand and took in the bruise of them all against the stone. Without counting, he could guess there were ten million exactly. The enormity of it settled on him like a leaden shroud of grief.

Then something flickered like a firefly, white as lightning. Aziraphale bent to see. It was just a spark. But one of the names was glowing—or it had been. It was fading now. Aziraphale started to read it, but made himself stop, because it felt wrong to finish. 

“Heavens,” he whispered. The expletive felt terribly appropriate. “These aren’t demon names at all; they’re…” 

“ _In memoriam_.”

The firefly light flickered out. Aziraphale froze. He turned around. And he realized—

“Finally get my message, darling?” 

—he was in the wrong room. 

“Hasn’t it been just _ages_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is curious about Japanese calligraphy drills, the one mentioned here is [a drill for the kanji "eternity,"](https://www.japanvisitor.com/japanese-culture/language/japanese-shodo) which contains the "eight directions," and while Anathema just thinks of it as such, the whole thing seemed far too mystic for me not to find some place for her to use it.


	9. Chapter the Ninth - The Cup of Trembling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale was in the wrong room. The wrong place really. Hell is no place for an angel._
> 
> Content / Trigger Warning for implications of physical/emotional abuse and mention of blood. I promise good things will happen in the end.

**A** ziraphale was in the wrong room. The wrong place really. Hell is no place for an angel. 

But there was another angel there. 

“Hasn’t it been just _ages_?”

It’s easy to forget what makes the devil dangerous. Not the mouth full of canines. Not the flint hooves that spark. Not the javelin tail. 

What makes the devil dangerous is that he can be beautiful.

In the deep firelight of Hell, the devil stood in white light, shining like snow against blood. Even folded, his wings were bright as midday. 

It should have been impossible. After centuries— _millennia_ —that light should have gone out. Aziraphale was speechless. He felt thirsty, but he didn’t even know what for.

“What’s the matter, darling? Krampus got your tongue?”

That voice was like music, and it had no business being like music. Just like it’s owner had no business shining. 

As Aziraphale watched, the devil tapped a wall. A door to a hidden closet swung outward. Without hesitation, the bright angel folded his wings and began stripping off layers of glory-linen: intricate sleeves and trains and skirts, knots of braided starlight and woven lightning… Every pleat and fold perfect. Meanwhile, here and there on the wall, broken names caught the light.

In Aziraphale’s head, a voice very much like Crowley’s hissed, _Say something_. 

He tried. “Lucifer?”

The other angel said, “Look at your staring. Am I such a mess?”

In the back of the closet was a mirror. Aziraphale caught sight of his Crowley-reflection.

The devil said, “I just got in from a temptation you would not _believe_.”

“A… temptation?”

“I convinced a man that he could save his brain in a computer and live forever,” the devil announced. His voice had no business being like music, but it was. “It was so easy, too. They all want to live forever on their terms.” Another sash dropped onto a hook. “I’ll be seeing him on _my_ terms soon—him, and the ones he’s paying to _murder_ him. Oh, isn’t it delicious?”

It was not. Despite Aziraphale’s horror, the thirst would not stop. 

“It’s great to see you, darling, really it is.” The devil went on, “But you’ve caught me at a bad time, I’m afraid.”

 _Answer_ , hissed the Crowley voice again. 

“Is there any other kind here, Lu?” 

Lucifer stopped folding a shawl. Aziraphale wondered if he’d been caught. Sunglasses couldn’t hide the croak in his voice, or the way his adam’s apple bobbed like a fisherman’s lure.

Hellfire flickered across ten million broken names. And, suddenly, the devil laughed. 

“I’ll wager: Peer review. One of the worst, wouldn’t you say?” He laid the shawl in its place. “Boring stuff.” He turned to look back again, now in just a plain skirt.

Aziraphale said, “Yet here you’ve been, er, putting on the ritz?” 

“What, these old things?” The closet shut, hiding the brilliance and the mirror. “You flatter me, you devil.” Lucifer crossed the room. Aziraphale wasn’t prepared for it, wasn’t prepared for the most beautiful angel he’d ever seen taking his face in his hands, smiling at him, and saying, “Oh, darling, I’ve missed you.” 

Aziraphale stepped back immediately, but the smile persisted.

“You’re angry at me, aren’t you?” the devil said. He scoffed. “I told the Council to behave. Did they get carried away? They always do when they’re having fun—but tell me”—he closed the distance between them again—“who do I have to maim?”

Aziraphale clenched his mouth shut. He had to. Because his mind actually _went_ there. He actually wondered who he could put a bad word in for. He knew the names of so many demons. It felt terribly gratifying, this instant of immunity, of power—gratifying when it wasn’t even his yet, when it was a morsel this tempter was offering him so sweetly he could taste it, like it was already in his mouth…

_Stop admiring him. Stop wanting to impress him. You know all these tricks. Did them yourself when we’d flip a coin, remember? You’ve been the piper. You know the tune._

Maybe the voice was only in his head. Or maybe he and Crowley had a connection stronger than even they knew. Either way, there was only one _tempter_ Aziraphale was ever going to bend to, and that would be on his terms—on _both_ their terms—thank you very much.

He didn’t say any of this, but his face must have.

“In a mood today, are we?”

_Stop thinking about how the beauty feels. Think about what it means._

Aziraphale shut his eyes. He did think about it: He thought about the end of the world. He thought about Crowley’s face. The ground had quaked under Tadfield Airbase then. His face ashen under red hair, Crowley had hit his knees, saying, warning, _“This time, it's personal.”_ Aziraphale thought about Adam taking a stand against the devil. Braver than any eleven-year-old by rights should ever have to be. Brave—and angry. 

Aziraphale let himself feel angry at Lucifer. And at himself. After all, this light show should have been infuriating from the start. Lucifer had never suffered _with_ his followers. The other demons had been wounded, mutilated, and dismembered. He hadn’t. They’d grieved. He hadn’t. Ten million angels had lost their names. Meanwhile, their leader had amassed epithets—in title case.

“Say something, darling.”

Once more, Aziraphale stepped back.

“Sorry, Lu, what can I say?” He stared from behind the sunglasses and forced a thin, rubbery smile. “You know how awkward it is, when you’re picking up your things and you run into your bastard ex.”

He said it cheekily. As cheekily as he could. Because later he’d have to tell Crowley that he’d said it. And he wanted Crowley to laugh, barking and loud, preferably while they were both drunk out of their minds, trying to recover from this. It was the only way this could be funny.

The devil chuckled bitterly. “Let’s not bring Mother into this. But, as you like it.” 

He snapped his fingers and there was a rush of shadow. The light went out like a gale-stripped candle. Blood-red skin glowed like burned leather. The crown of horns appeared. The gemstone eyes were consumed by fire-red rage, and the linen charred into rags.

“Better?” The voice’s pitch had dropped, now more sensation than sound. 

It wasn’t better, but Aziraphale shrugged: He was done being impressed.

Satan, the Accuser (title caps mandatory) folded leathery wings against his back and strode over to the map table near his throne. He sneered down at the fragile Earth.

He said, “Take your time. You know they’re all terrified of you now.”

“I know,” said Aziraphale. Something occurred to him. His eyes drifted to the map.

The Enemy noticed and crooked a finger. Aziraphale sauntered over like he had nothing better to do.

A terrible stain crawled across the Pacific Ocean. Ravenous fires burned across two continents. Smoke choked too many borders. Just over the threshold of hearing, wails rose all across the globe, not physical voices but souls, screaming for justice, for freedom, for an end to torment. Likewise, in a faint ringing echo, the land, the sea, and the sky—and their principalities—begged Heaven for an explanation. 

The devil sighed wistfully, “Oh, the things we do for love…”

Aziraphale had been a cherub, long ago. He knew all the languages, even the sky's. Now he sucked his teeth and swallowed a rising lump in his throat, shut his eyes behind his glasses and held his breath. It was all he could do to stay quiet. He listened for the other voices, for the prayers, for the psalms marching into the fire rather than out. They were there, but faint. Very faint.

“…wouldn’t you agree?”

“This is a bit… much,” Aziraphale managed.

“Is it? One hundred billion souls, all told so far. Hard to care after a while, even if you want to. Too many names, too many faces. They all start to blend together. It’s the constants you start to value.” He gestured at the walls. “All you have. One could get obsessed looking for a familiar face—in Heaven or Hell.” 

Not sure what to make of this speech, Aziraphale shoved his long, borrowed fingers into his pockets just the way Crowley would have, a restraining gesture that feigned casualness. “Not that I give a bloody fig,” he said, “but why did you want me here?”

“To tell you that I don’t mind,” said the devil casually. “Not at all.”

“I don’t care what you mind,” said Aziraphale. 

“I wanted you to know, I’m on your side,” the devil replied. “This new world you wanted…. I can’t hate you for it. I myself have only ever wanted to see things made better, remember? You were always more than a mere soldier to me. I always valued your contributions to our cause.”

 _Soldier?_ Aziraphale tried not to scoff, then did anyway, because Crowley would have done just that. “Well, to be frank I don’t think of you all that much.” he said.

The devil didn’t look up from the map. He said, “He still keeps plants, doesn’t he?”

The voice in his head said, _Shit_.

The devil stretched a slow, knowing smile that was all canines. He reached out, let his fingers walk up Aziraphale’s arm, let the hand sit heavy on his shoulder, “He’s told me about them. About everything. Couldn’t help himself. No one can.” 

Aziraphale held very still. A bluff? Was it a bluff?

The smile didn’t stop. “And that was very clever, what you two did, what you’re still doing. Brilliant and clever, and I haven’t told a soul, darling. Do you know why?”

Aziraphale let his brow furrow expectantly, and the devil leaned down to speak right in his ear.

“Because not for a _moment_ have Ifelt threatened by you, Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.” 

_Shit._

Aziraphale couldn’t move.

_Shitshitshitshitshit…_

“You might have fooled my demons, but I’m the ‘father of liars,’ little angel. “We all made a pact long ago. Sealed in fire. Do not for one instant think that your pitiful love makes Crowley any less _mine_.”

It was fortunate someone interrupted then, because Aziraphale almost did something very foolish. He’d already curled his hand into a fist—

“What is this?”

Aziraphale whirled around. The Lord of the Flies stood in the doorway, jaw loose and eyes wide at the sight of him. Then the shock charred to hatred. The cloud of flies buzzed a collective snarl. If looks could kill, Beelzebub’s would have been hellfire. 

“You sent for me, my liege?”

“Just whiling away the time you’ve been late,” the devil smiled. The weight of his arm on Aziraphale’s shoulders sat like lead as he lied, as Aziraphale let him lie. He added, “Crowley and I were just catching up.”

“Crowley the traitor,” Beelzebub sneered. 

“You know your place?”

Beelzebub’s face went… blank. Not pale with fear or red with anger. Just blank. Throwing back their shoulders and taking a quick stride, the prince crossed to the foot of the throne and knelt. As they passed Aziraphale sensed something… . 

The walls of Level Nine were stained with fear. This was a fresh coat of paint.

_Why?_

Then Aziraphale remembered. It couldn’t be coincidence, could it? He glanced back at the wall of broken names, at the flickering sigil from before. It winked again, like the last flare of flame dying on a wick… then it went out.

Before Aziraphale could think how to react, the devil was herding him out with an easy stride, saying “Darling, you know I hate to cut these little chats short, but business before pleasure. It’s been positively lovely.” 

Aziraphale shook him off at the door. “I’m afraid it’s coming across all negative.”

“We should talk again soon.”

“The end of the world would be too soon.” Aziraphale pushed up his sunglasses and straightened his shoulders. “ _Good_ day to you, your disgrace, and to you, _Lucy_.”

“Brave little coward.” The devil chuckled. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Aziraphale backed away. The shadows in the doorway swallowed up the room and Aziraphale stood in the hallway, alone. 

And alive. In one piece even. 

_He knows._

Aziraphale felt like running. He clenched his fists to stop their shaking.

_He knows. He has known._

For a long moment, Aziraphale pushed his palms to his eyes, one more smoldering wick feeding the greasy misery of the hallways. But then he straightened his jacket and turned from the door. He strode up the hall, shoulders back, steps dutifully swerving in-character. 

Crowley needed to know.

* * *

Crowley-as-Aziraphale paced the lobby by the escalators of H&H Holdings (Holdings), Ltd., books tucked under one arm. The stapler in his pocket. He tried shrugging off his worry—with a spasm of the shoulders, a shake of the head—over and over, but its claws were too deep.

It wasn’t just Aziraphale being late. It was his angel being late while two messages on his mobile said—

It rang suddenly and he jumped a foot, answered, “Adam?”

“ _Hey, Uncle Crowley._ ”

“You’re alright?”

“ _I’m at the Device-Pulsifer’s house. I’m fine now. Is Aziraphale there?_ ”

“He’s… out. He’s out right now, got a thing—What for?”

“ _Lord Beelzebub and Dagon said something about Heaven’s Wrath_ ,” Adam said.

“Beelzebub?!”

“ _I’m fine. We’re fine. Your advice was really good, and Anathema helped a lot—_ ”

Dog barked in the background and Crowley blessed Somebody that his godson had befriended a witch worth her salt and a hellhound besides.

“ _We’re kinda worried though_ ,” said Adam.

“Perfectly understandable.” Dog barked again and Crowley caught the hint. “Put him on, would you?”

“ _Who?_ ”

“Dog, put Dog on.”

“ _Sure, okay._ ”

Crowley listened to a series of barks, yelps, and whines.

“Really…? Now that’s something I wouldn’t think I’d see.”

Another bark, a few growls… 

“So then what? Uh-huh… Hey, watch your language. I know _I_ don’t care, but there’s a kid present, for Someone’s sake… Okay. Good job. Good boy, Dog. You’re a very good boy. Not just saying that. Stellar work. You keep at it.”

Dog barked an affirmative. 

“Adam?”

“ _So, um, I guess Dog filled you in?_ ”

“Tapping the amygdala and raising dopamine levels. Saw it all in the old days back in Mesopotamia. Ol’ Beelz is a one-trick pony once you’ve been around long as I have.”

“ _They’re lying, right? I mean, wrath isn’t a thing anymore_.”

“It’s a’right, Adam,” said Crowley quickly. “You and your friends already saved the world once. This time you leave it to me.”

“ _You mean they are doing something? You’ve got a plan?_ ”

“Nng…” Crowley shut his eyes. “Not a ‘plan’ as such…” 

Crowley thought about the fire stores in Heaven, about the readings on the spectrometer—his spectrometer. He thought about waves the size of mountains crashing over Gibraltar into the Mediterranean Basin. He thought about Sodom. 

“Let’s say half o’ one. I’ll be… we’ll be… Look, tell Anathema we’ll come quick as we can. I’ll text you the ‘deets.’ You get some rest.”

“ _Sure thing. Thanks again_.”

“And I’ll talk to Aziraphale, shall I? He’s out right now, like I said, out and—Oh, thank Someone!”

After a long day of seeing his face in uncomfortable places, Crowley was relieved to see its second-best place coming up the escalator.

“ _Uncle Crowley?_ ”

“I’ll talk to you later, Adam. You be goo—you behav—you be _human_. Bye.” Crowley punched off the phone and waved, announced, “That was Adam.”

“Adam? Why—?”

Crowley threw his arms around him and Aziraphale broke off, held him tight. Aziraphale was shaking. Crowley noticed this just before he noticed the _smell_. 

Biologists say smells provide the most vivid of sense memories. For Crowley, the memory of this smell was visceral. It injected his blood with liquid nitrogen. It strangled his pulse, choked his voice.

“Are… you alright? What happened?”

Crowley pulled back to look him over, though they were each still in the other’s skin. He looked for bumps, for blood, for bruises… 

“Nothing. I’m…” 

“ _What did he do_?”

“Oh. I mean, yes, there was something. But not…” Aziraphale realized the most important thing and lowered his voice: “I’m alright, Crowley.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Now, don’t you go apologizing for _my_ ideas,” Aziraphale tutted. He twitched a bright smile and took a deep breath. Crowley keep staring, kept searching. Aziraphale looked alright. He did. But still…

“Oh my!” Aziraphale spotted the books on the floor. He stooped to gather them up like stray kittens. “Dearest, this is no way to treat antiques.”

Crowley felt his heart unclench. The slush-stutter of his pulse thawed back to warm. “Yeah, well…, forced to choose between antiques and holding you, I’ll choose you every time.”

That got another hug. Something jammed painfully against his chest, but only in a physically real way.

“What on Earth is that?” asked Aziraphale pulling back. Crowley suddenly grinned and stuck a hand into his jacket—

—and pulled out the stapler.

“My dear,” said Aziraphale with delighted exasperation. He smiled so bright his eyes twinkled. “Tell me all about it on the way.”

* * *

**O** ver the front entrance of Jasmine Cottage hangs an iron horseshoe. It has been painted over a number of times. Occasionally a new nail is added to better fix it in place. The wood has weathered around it but no rust has ever touched it. It’s a heavy, sturdy thing, a master’s handicraft. Never has any resident thought to remove it. It hangs there with a certainty that suggests it not doing so would bring the walls down.

Anathema knew Old Magic. So did the only angel and demon she kept company with.

To any supernatural matter, the horseshoe was like a forge fire to a brand, so Crowley and Aziraphale always called ahead. Newt let them in by the back door. 

Newt took their coats and Aziraphale’s bookbag, but Crowley was particular about the picnic basket. The demon walked with it out to his side like it were a hot stone; but he wouldn’t put it down, not even when Anathema showed him upstairs for just a moment, to check on Adam. 

Anathema had made herself a friend to the Young family not long after moving to Tadfield. It had been easy enough to have Adam overnight today, just to be safe. The Them had joined him soon after Pepper sent word, and all four were camped out in sleeping bags in the upstairs guest room. Pepper had taken the guest bed because of an unspoken propriety not one of the boys would dare call chivalry in her presence. _[Author’s note: She knew though; Pepper had after the onset of puberty decided she could tolerate it in small doses when it seemed practical.]_

Pepper clutched her sword in her sleep, and in the midst of the sleeping bag nest on the ground sat Dog.

He blinked his red eyes in the dark as Crowley and Anathema looked in.

“Good dog,” Crowley whispered. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Good friends,” he added. “Thank you.”

“Like I told you on the phone, he’s fine now,” Anathema said softly. 

She ran a finger along the doorframe, knew Crowley would look and see other assurances she had etched there. Not with nail polish or fishing line either. 

“Do you feel any better?” she asked.

“Highlight of my day,” Crowley replied. “Really, thank you.”

Downstairs, Newt was rolling up his day’s work. A case of Sémillon was sitting on the counter, pulled up fresh from the cellar. Something promising waited beside it in a cake box.

“What have we here?” Aziraphale asked of the blueprints, though he licked his lips glancing at the box. He was an angel of appetite, but seldom forward about it.

“This is a mystery a friend and I are figuring out,” Newt explained proudly. “Particle physics. You might find it interesting, being an angel.”

“Oh?”

“It’s dealing with paradoxes,” Newt explained. “Knowing the future.”

“You mean like prophecy?” Aziraphale asked, confused.

“Not exactly. I mean, is it possible to know the future in a way that doesn’t change it?”

“I suppose, if one didn’t interfere after gaining that knowledge.”

“That’s what I think,” Newt agreed, adjusting his glasses confidently. “How do angels interact with particles?”

“Particles?”

“As a student of the sciences, I know that five million- _million_ hydrogen atoms would fit on the head of a pin,” Newt explained, “but the traditional question is how many angels could dance on one. Size doesn’t matter so much to your, um, folk, does it?”

“Not much,” Aziraphale admitted. “But most of us don’t dance.”

Newt looked instantly disappointed and Aziraphale suspected he’d lost a bet. As a comfort, the angel added, “You were better off asking how many demons in any case. They’re from the same stock, after all.”

“And they dance?”

“Oh yes, and anything else angels won’t do.”

Newt raised his eyebrows and his mouth made a small little “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Well, if you don’t mind my asking, how does that work out between you and, er, Mr. Crowley—the, um, the dancing?”

“I took lessons.”

“Ah.”

“Of course I meant _other_ angels.” Aziraphale beamed innocently. “But do tell me more about this project.”

“Well,” said Newt, “we are trying to figure out if there’s an order to the universe—prove it, that is. I suppose your existence kinda shows it…”

“What a fun little exercise.” Aziraphale tapped his fingertips together eagerly. “How are you going about it?”

Newt chose to take ‘fun little exercise’ with the spirit in which it was given. “We’re comparing all different possible models of existence to see which one we’re in.”

“Models?”

“There are potentially millions of universes,” said Newt. “There is some speculative debate about whether all other universes themselves are potential or if they’re _actual_ —in theory they could be riding right alongside ours. There’s even more debate about whether we can reach them if they are out there.”

“Whatever for?”

“First things first,” Newt said with a shrug. “The _principle_ of the thing, for this mystery at least, is that we expect we’re in one possible outcome of past events. Knowing a handful of possible initial conditions means we can test which one. And then, we can figure out the future. It’s all cause and effect, like… um, like…” He snapped his fingers, searching for the word.

“Falling dominos?”

Newt blinked, surprised. “Yes, exactly. So if we knew the model, there would be no chaos.”

“Odd.”

Newt frowned at this. “Chaos is just a word for the unknown, the unpredictable.”

“Oh, I see,” said Aziraphale, and cheered up. “I thought you were talking about her.”

“About who?”

At that moment, Anathema and Crowley entered—Crowley with a flourish. “Kiddies are asleep,” he declared. “Now where’s the wine?”

* * *

Hastur had given Dagon a bit of advice at the gates. From personal experience. And for the rest of the night, Dagon tried to keep it. It was a simple enough admonition.

_Behave._

To make up for lost time, Dagon fastidiously hit the books that night. Fergus griped and complained about the overtime, but Dagon ignored it. 

_Behave._

_Don’t step out of line._

_Don’t even hint you’ve heard of sideways._

By midnight, Dagon had done all the right—well, _correct_ —things that a good—well, _bad_ —demon in paperwork should. He even ended on a high note, sending off thick reams of red-tape specials, all marked “urgent,” timed to arrive at each desk just moments before the bookkeepers ran for the punchclock. 

It was the little things in life. 

Dagon also had to return the day’s numbers to the prince’s office. Such a visit couldn’t possibly be contrived. It had a perfectly legitimate end. None would question it. Dagon saved it for last, which was also perfectly reasonable, because it was on the way out. 

He found the office door open. Hastur was pacing the otherwise empty room, smoking like a locomotive. Dagon entered and dropped the folder on the hardwood desk. 

“You're up late,” Dagon said.

“So are they.”

“You’re waiting?”

“I’ve got things to do.” Hastur didn’t stop pacing, didn’t leave. “They could take days, could be centuries. And us with the Prince of Heaven wanting to meet in a few bloody hours. You’d think that… that—Bloody Heaven!”

Dagon spun to follow his stare, just as Beelzebub dropped into a wrecked pile at the threshold. It was all too clear that sheer pride had gotten them that far. Nothing else could have managed and not even that would take them further. 

Dagon rushed to gather them off the floor and Hastur tossed his cigarette to follow. 

Between the two of them they dragged the prince to the near edge of the oaken desk, Hastur still shamelessly blessing from low Hades to high Heaven all the while.

“What d’he…? Blessed Heaven…” 

“Hellfire,” Beelzebub gasped as their flies hovered worriedly. 

“What?” asked Hastur.

“I need…”

“Where the Heaven would we—?”

“Think I’m an idiot, idiot?” Beelzebub made a weak (and rude) gesture, first towards Hastur, but then towards a wall of stark cabinets built into the wall. “There… in a case of vials…”

The cabinets held trays of maps and large documents. Dagon pried out one, then another. Each scraped like a gallows lever. He found the case in the third one down. 

It was a small thing. Pitifully small. Black wood worked with gold. Dagon flicked the little clasp and the lid popped open. There were a dozen fine glass vials and less than half were filled with telltale feathers of fiery light. 

Dagon returned, carefully carrying the case while Hastur yanked a box of grimy bandages from under the desk. Dagon tried to catch Beelzebub’s eye but the prince stared numbly forward.

Hastur fussed like a hen. “Damn,” he kept saying, over and over again. “You’re a lucky bastard he stopped when he got this far.”

“Why did he?” asked Dagon. 

Beelzebub didn’t answer.

“I mean, bloody _Iscariot_ , he must have been feeling like a bloody saint to only—”

“Shut the _Hell_ up, Hastur.” The prince glared at him. Then they looked at Dagon and promptly fainted.

* * *

That night, the lights of Jasmine Cottage glowed warm and welcoming well past midnight. The faces of its adult occupants also glowed, thanks to the ministrations of quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol. 

Crowley had set the basket aside on top of the blueprint and now they lounged around the table talking about the events of the day (about some less than others) and catching up on everything from every angle. Now and then Crowley glanced at the basket, but it simply did what baskets do, which is nothing.

There was also cake.

“Excellent,” Aziraphale cooed. He reached for a napkin but licked the last of the hand-whipped icing from his fingers before wiping up. “These strawberries...”

“They’re perfect,” Anathema agreed. “Always perfect.” She turned the box on the table to show the label. “It’s this little shop down the lane. I’ll show you tomorrow. Any other place and they’re frozen and flown in.”

Aziraphale tsked over his next glass of Sémillon and poured another for Crowley, who smiled fondly. 

“I like them frozen,” Crowley said, just to make trouble.

“But freshly frozen?” asked Aziraphale.

“Freshly frozen _fresas_ ,” Crowley attempted, and got it on the third try. 

“ _Frescas fresas_?” asked Newt.

“ _Fresas frescas_ ,” Anathema corrected him. “I don’t get anything imported when it can be helped—unless it’s bugspray.” 

“Blasted anarchists,” added Newt (who was a blue-mouthed sailor after a few drinks).

Anathema’s pleasantly tipsy expression waxed philosophical. “Guys, if they’re the ‘Lord of the Flies,’ where does that put spiders?”

“What d’you mean, where’s that put spiders?” Crowley asked around another glass. “They’re in their webs, right?”

“There’s a species of spider named after them, I think I read on… Wikipedia.”

“You can’t believe Wikipedia unless you know who edits it.”

“I edit Wikipedia,” Newt said—but added, sheepishly, “by hand. Anathema’s the one who actually…”

“I type it in. Not my point. My point is _spiders_.”

“Spiders aren’t flies,” said Crowley stubbornly.

“Flies are not the point.”

“Spiders are damned bloody anarchists,” Newt jumped in again. “Damn creepy arachn… a-nick-a-knack… nackered…”

“Knick-knacks?” Aziraphale suggested.

“I meant, is there a demon or an angel of spiders?” Anathema clarified. She pulled another bottle of wine from the case and passed it ’round.

“Anapests? Oh, bloody Hell…” 

“ _Arachnids_ , Newt,” Crowley recalled loudly, refilling the man’s wine. “Eight legs. Ticks too.”

“No, just spiders,” Anathema interrupted again.

“Oh yes, that would be Prince Michael.”

Three glasses of wine were lowered while Aziraphale polished off his own. 

He smiled tipsily at them. “What? You know how frost gets? And…”

“Never heard that one,” said Anathema.

“The archangel, Michael?” asked Crowley incredulously. “Mr. ‘Back Channels’?” 

Aziraphale shrugged. “It’s an odd story. About David. See, Michael was protecting the tribes of Israel awhile, and eventually was protecting its king, back when there was one, and…”

“And that involves spiders?” 

“Half a moment, I’ll get to it.” Aziraphale stole a dollop of cream from the edge of Crowley’s plate. “You see, David always hated spiders, but one day he was hiding in a cave, still in exile see and…”

Crowley nudged the last of his cake towards Aziraphale, who accepted it happily. 

“...Michael helped.” Aziraphale gestured with his cake fork. He clarified (needlessly), “Prince. He had the spiders make a web.”

“But Saul was king,” Newt pointed out.

“Not at that point.”

Crowley helped himself to more wine. “Always thought we would’ve heard. We would’ve heard downstairs, if Michael had been with a bigwig like David. On account of later, that whole Bethsheba thing…”

“Perhaps it was classified. I only read about it…” Aziraphale held up his glass, realized it was empty and sought the bottle. Crowley helped. “You know Michael. He’s a tight-lipped and tacitack… tactical…tacky… bug—”

“Taciturn, angel.”

“A taciturn angel of bugs and kings and angels, yes, he is. Is there any more cake?” 

Crowley readily reached for the box on the table.

“No, it’s all out—” Anathema began.

“There’s a slice left,” Crowley announced, and snagged Aziraphale’s plate to dish it out.

“That’s… odd…”

“Can’t count worth ducks when you’re drunk?” Crowley teased.

“No, I was just sure… oh, never mind.”

And the picnic basket continued doing what it did.

* * *

In Hell, the flies kept vigil. 

After the last of the hellfire had been scraped from the vials, and after the last of the necessary bandages were tied, the Lord of the Flies regained consciousness, much to the excitement of their swarm and the relief of Hastur and Dagon. 

They sat up on the edge of the desk, feet still hanging six inches from the floor, and settled their sea-blue eyes guiltily on the Lord of the Files. Dagon was at their feet by then, winching the last ties of a splint into place. Hastur was folding the leftover bandages into their box, glancing between them both pointedly.

Beelzebub drew a breath. It shook like a pipe rattling a clog loose, and Dagon looked up. They knew he would. 

“What is it?”

“You’re next, Dagon.”

“What?” 

Hastur clamped his teeth down on a fresh cigarette, immediately understanding. He blessed through his teeth.

Beelzebub curled their lips into the stitch of a corpse’s smile. “The price to pay. To stop it this soon. He wants you next.”

Dagon sat back on his heels, a lap full of bandages. His hands clutched at the air. 

Hastur let out a heavy moan. “We don’t have time for this, do we?”

Neither answered, so he strode to the door. 

“Yeah, well, told you it’d be something like that,” he muttered. “I’ll make some cover story for ol’ wank-wings, shall I, your lowness?”

He glanced back once, but didn’t wait for an answer, just turned the corner into the hall, leaving them both alone.

Dagon was still staring. Beelzebub’s eyes were roaming now, looking at anything but him. 

“There a price for me too then?” Dagon asked at last.

“Didn’t say. Probably not. The whole world’s going to end soon.”

Dagon shuddered, pushed a hand through his long hair, then shuddered again. At last, he got himself to his feet and turned away. 

He said, “You’re not sorry.”

“Dammit, of course I’m not,” Beelzebub spat. “I’m…” 

The rest of the protest broke off in a hiss. Fear had left with the pain. Now it came again. Inevitably. In and out like the tide. The longer the wait, the more chance there’d be another capital “S” Summons to make them pay for lessons not learned. 

“A demon’s never sorry. What do you take me for, some kind of blasted angel?”

“That’s it then.” Dagon dropped the last of the bandages and strode for the door. 

Beelzebub crumpled head over knees, hollowed like a cicada shell. They couldn’t watch him go. That was it then. That was all it could ever be. Damn road trips (and damn Crowley—damn Crowley _always_ ). Damn all that novacaine, just letting the drill bore deeper, letting it peel back flesh, bare the nerve…

The heavy door shut. 

That was it then. 

The latch went click.

“So.”

Beelzebub looked up. Dagon was striding back from the door.

“What in the Nine Circles of Hell do you think you’re—?” 

Dagon slid his fingers into their hair and kissed them, lip to lip at first, then deeper, diving in hard and greedy. 

Beelzebub clutched at his arms, to shove him away, to pull him in, unable to do either because their nerves were still bare. Completely bare. The pain was real, but this couldn’t be. It couldn’t be because this was impossible. 

This was not how _betrayal_ worked.

Dagon pulled back for breath, his fists still full of hair. “Here’s what I think,” he gasped. His voice was low and furious: “I think the whole world’s going to end. For real this time. I think he’s going to do whatever he wants to me for all that time. And at the end of it, it’s all going to be over, and even if—even if there’s time… Well, he’ll damn certainly make sure I won’t be able to… to…” 

He kissed them again and Beelzebub’s head spun. This was not how betrayal worked. Betrayal was anger and steel and a million-lightyear freefall into burning sulfur. Betrayal was a proud smirking archangel, was _damnation_ as the only retirement plan. It wasn’t warm or reaching or needy. It wasn’t mouths and teeth and tongues and scales, fingers and hands and arms. It wasn’t this. 

“And I figure I won’t want to,” Dagon said. “And— _bless it_ —I want to. I want this. I want you.”

Bless them, those eyes shone when he was angry, didn’t they? He was merciless. Of course, he was. He always was. No demon worth his scales and horns would be gentle. Would be—

_No. No. No, no, no-no-no. Don’t think that. Don’t—_

“Dagon, you greedy, insolent, arrogant beast, if you think I regret turning on you for a moment—”

“With all due respect, your highness, shut up and let me love you.”

“Damn you,” said the prince, and did.

* * *

Later that night, Crowley stood carefully up off the fold-out bed of the living room couch. He reset the blankets around Aziraphale, then plucked his sunglasses off the end table. The books were there too, the note in the blue one still creased and unread. The titles both gleamed in the dark. 

Crowley crossed to the dining room. The open window cast moonlight across the table and chairs. The pale beams shone on the emptied wine bottles and glasses. A few scented candles in the kitchen threw sleepy, gleaming flames.

The picnic basket sat unassumingly on the table. It was right where he’d left it. A bit of checkered cloth peeked artfully from under its lid.

The night was a peaceful quiet. The sort only found out in the countryside. Crickets eked outside, and the house settled on its beams and foundations with harmless little creaks. Somewhere nearby, a barn owl trilled. 

Crowley lifted the basket’s lid. He carefully turned back the checkered cloth. 

The pure-water glow of the Philosopher’s Stone shone back at him, docile and full of promise.

“Don’t you dare look so innocent,” he murmured, and shut the lid again.

His hand lingered there. He closed his eyes, told himself to pull away.

Crowley was sober now, had sent all the wine back where it came from to clear his head. Because there were still Beelzebub and Michael, and there were facts more dangerous than who ruled the spiders.

Beelzebub had been to visit the King of Hell. And that meant… It meant…

It meant this was personal. Old Horns had a way of doing things when it got personal. Anything else, _anything_ else, and you could rest assured he’d sit back in the shadows and send orders. He’d let you play your games in the meantime. He’d laugh if you amused him, if you impressed him with your cleverness and charm. He’d even let you fail gloriously. Horribly. He’d laugh then, too, but still he would stay distant, uninvolved.

But with this…

There had been no cake. And then there had been.

Inside the basket, the Stone whispered. Its words were a strange, silent language. It must have been older than Enochian, but Crowley knew the meaning. There were scripts for this sort of thing. He’d helped write them. 

_“If you are who you say you are…”_

It all came down to pride. 

_“…turn this Stone into bread…, defy death…, and rule…”_

Crowley swallowed. 

_“Rule the world.”_

“No,” he said. Mary’s son had always been better at the fancy speeches.

_“Then who are you?”_

Crowley took his hand away. The crickets sang on. 

“You don’t fool me for a minute,” he murmured. He left the room, slipped back under the covers on the couch and curled himself up behind Aziraphale, and tried to sleep.

* * *

Alone, Hastur took a left turn on Level Nine and lit another cigarette. He didn’t hurry. He may have lengthened his stride, but Hastur never hurried. Haste was waste. 

At the end of the corridor, his coat threw greasy shadows as he swayed to a stop. He sucked the life from the tobacco, sparks and all, then tossed it and rapped a scuffed knuckle on the doorframe. 

“Enter.”

Hastur slipped inside the barrier and bowed immediately, eyes blank and black as shot. On the throne, the devil shone like a brand. A haze of shadow lingered around the dais in a mockery of the curtain above. Behind him, on the wall, a few bits of light flickered.

He wasn’t looking at them. He couldn’t watch them all the time. Thank Somebody. Certainly don’t thank him. 

Hastur held his bow steady, uncomfortably low. “My liege…”

“Duke Hastur, you’re not whom I expected at all.”

“Hopelessly sorry, my King. I just realized you had a full night ahead of you, and I should have checked in soon as possible about your brother’s visit.”

The devil tapped one clawed hand on the arm of the chair. There was blood caked under his nails. “Proceed.”

“It’s just, seeing how you didn’t want any of us letting Michael know of your role in this plan, what do you suggest I say when he asks after Lords Dagon and Beelzebub?”

The cherry-red eyes narrowed, and Hastur waited with the sallow, dead-inside look of a salaryman whose life is his work. 

He explained, “We need to discuss the next leg of the corruption tomorrow, as planned.” Hastur’s fingers twitched to roll another cigarette. To resist he folded his arms and sucked his teeth. “As you planned, your Gracelessness.”

The devil sighed roughly and slouched on the throne. “I suppose the Lord of the Files will be needing his appendages?”

“And likely his eyes and tongue. Don’t quote me on that though,” Hastur confirmed. “Awfully prying, your brother. Could just cancel the tour I suppose. Say a pipe burst.”

“Don’t try to squirrel your way out of that duty, Hastur, darling. You know it’s all part of the endgame.” 

“Right. That ol’ thing. Slipped my mind. You’ll be needing your brother to carry on his visits, same as under Duke Ligur then?”

“We’ll avoid anything suspicious regarding the rest of the archangels as well, until things are better underway,” the devil said. “Now, don’t be late.”

Hastur bowed again. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Your Majesty. I’ll check in later, shall I?”

“I look forward to it.”

“Right.” With one last bow, Hastur backed out of the throne room. He took the next stairwell because he hated the drop, rolling a cigarette in his fingers and strutting purposefully across each landing. 

It really was easy as that. Who knew why everyone had to get so dramatic about things. Haster passed the hellhound cages on the way up to Beelzebub’s office, letting his fingers flick over the windows of each cell, jeering at the mutts as they rammed the bars with their oily snouts. 

“Got a job for you soon,” he assured them. “Can't let his pretty highness get too comfortable.” 

Back at the first floor hallway, the office door was shut and locked. Halfway to a knock, Hastur thought better of it. Instead, he stuck his cigarette between his teeth and struck a light, then he fished out a scrap of grubby paper and charcoal.

“Saw that coming a bloody mile away, I did,” he huffed as he penned a quick note: _Summons canceled. Carry on_. “Damn paid our bloody debt ten times over covering for them both, just to give them time to figure it out.”

Three years ago, the world hadn’t ended. Instead everything was being put back, best it could be, by the eleven-year-old son of Satan. Hastur had returned to Megiddo, still waiting for the end. He thought about this often. Not that Hastur wanted anything from the notorious child. (Haster was not a demon of Greed.) But it had occurred to him, later on, that there’d been a window. A time when he could have. It was closed now. 

Hastur slid the note under the door, then set off to find one of Legion to threaten about preparations. He kept muttering, just loud enough that, if he’d had company, someone walking beside him would have laughed. 

“Sharp as a whip and dense as a doorknob sometimes, aren’t they?”

Of course, no one answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spider story is something I read [here](https://www.beliefnet.com/love-family/parenting/2000/09/teaching-tales-king-david-and-the-spider.aspx) by chance after learning (on Wikipedia) that there’s a spider named after Beelzebub.


	10. Chapter the Tenth - Devil May Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The closest door to Hell was a small, jagged cave on a mountainside. It’s opening led to a jagged tunnel that sloped downward into an eerie fog. The door was tangled in dying vines and dark shapes moved within its darker shadows. The cave seemed to be playing this part for an award: “Most likely cave to be entered by a Greek harper with a lot of gall and short-term memory loss.”_   
> 

* * *

**A** parade ground has two purposes and neither is obvious. 

The first is for the audience: It encourages apathy (liars call it “peace of mind”). War looks neat and tidy all dressed up in rows. On parade grounds, soldiers go through drills on perfectly flat terrain in fresh, clean uniforms. War is never so neat and tidy, but that’s easy to accept as long as the audience is never forced to see it “offstage.”

The second purpose of parade grounds is more nefarious. Even in Heaven.

“Forward. Swords up. Guard. Defend. Stab. Strike. Guard. Forward.”

At sunup, companies of angels had crowded into Heaven’s parade grounds on the far side of the crystal lake for training; falling in line, taking up spear or sword, and listening for orders, for guidance, for someone to tell them how to do something that no one is born to do. 

“Swords up. Guard. Defend. Strike. Defend. Forward. Swords up…”

Immortals do not tire—not as mortals do. It’s a battle in the mind. 

“Guard. Defend. Forward. Strike. Defend. Stab.”

Jaelle was losing.

She had lost track of time when she heard steel clatter to the ground. It was probably a not-so-in-disguise blessing that she was too tired to realize the dropped sword was her own. She didn’t even think to catch it. She might have lost fingers if she had. If this were a real battle she’d have lost more than that to a demon… 

Were they battling demons? 

They’d been battling air all morning.

“Attention!”

The company—all ten thousand of them—snapped upright with a sound like a thunderclap. Except Jaelle. She had bent to reach for her sword and she was tired, too tired to think of changing course.

“Soldier, where is your weapon?”

Jaelle felt herself shrink before she even caught sight of the bright hem and its pair of bronze feet. A light fell over her.

Not a shadow. Archangels don’t cast shadows.

“Something the matter, soldier?”

A rush of whispers, faint as feathered wings, accompanied stares from every angel within earshot. Jaelle felt her green eyes pale in fear. She raised her timid eyes and swallowed hard. Stern eyes of sapphire blue stared down at her. 

That morning, Prince Michael had landed before the ranks of Heaven shining like copper and lightning. Fire-red hair, bright white robes, wings like a crane’s… It had been so long since the prince walked as himself that way, it was like remembering a dream.

The prince reached down and picked up the sword. (His own was sheathed invisible in the ether.) The plain gladius sang in the archangel’s hand as even this simple gesture let it slice the air. It caught light from the sea, the Veil, the stars—and threw it back in rings. It did not do that when Jaelle held it. Such effortless grace took centuries— _millennia_ —of practice.

Michael said, “Well, stand up, soldier.” 

Jaelle did.

“You know what this is?”

“A sword, sir—I mean, your grace.”

“Do you remember its first purpose?”

Jaelle tried. “It… That is, our swords… They were forged to fight Leviathan.”

“Forged to fight Leviathan, the beast of chaos.” Michael gave the sword a practiced spin. “This blade was forged in the fires of destruction. It was quenched in holy water. _Order from chaos_ , soldier. That is what we bring. By not making mistakes during basic training.”

In one smooth motion, Michael turned the hilts and stabbed the sword into a crack in the stones (one Jaelle until that moment had been wishing she could sink into). The weapon stood shining like a monument, then dulled as Michael’s hand dropped away. 

“Back in line, soldier.”

“Yes, your grace. Um…” 

Maybe it was the fatigue, but Jaelle was distracted a moment by the Veil. She could just make it out across the crystal lake, shimmering along the curvature of the spheres behind roiling cloud and rainbow beams of fractured light. She felt disoriented. (Not brave. Who could feel brave around an archangel?) She felt unsure, in sudden need of an anchor. 

She let the sword be and asked, “Your Highness, are we fighting the demons again?”

Michael had been about to move on down the line. Now he looked back and Jaelle thought—but that was impossible—she saw a flash of red in the blue eyes.

She also saw the bandages for the first time. On the wings.

_What happened there?_

The prince’s silence was unnerving. “I only heard,” Jaelle stammered, “that there was a truce with the demons.”

Nothing changed. Jaelle saw nothing change. But something changed anyway. The blue iced over.

“Step forward, soldier.”

Jaelle did. She’d been following orders all day, so she did. She didn’t want to.

She caught sight of Matarael in the corner of her eye, two rows back. His jaw was slack and he didn’t blink. His stare seemed to say, _What in Heaven do you think you’re doing?_ Jaelle swallowed hard. She didn’t know.

Michael asked, “What is your name, soldier?”

“Jaelle, your grace.”

“Jaelle?” The prince seemed bothered by this. “Guardian by your wings?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“You know how to follow orders, soldier?”

Jaelle hesitated. Matarael cleared his throat. He looked worried while everyone else looked morbidly curious, and Jaelle appreciated that.

“Yes, your grace,” she said, belatedly.

Michael nodded at the sword. “Take it up.” 

Jaelle did.

“Don’t drop it again.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Now guard!”

Suddenly the prince’s own sword appeared and flared its glory-light. Jaelle had only a second to realize what it meant, before the blade swung down in a terrible arch. 

She had only an instant. The command heard. The reflex triggered—

“Forward!” Michael’s shout caught Jaelle’s retreating step like a whip. “Defend!”

The swords clashed and sparks flew as Jaelle parried once, twice, and then failed at a counterstrike. Every fall of the prince’s blade sent shocks down her arms.

Michael caught Jaelle’s wrist in his free hand. Jaelle had forgotten—it’d been years since she’d had to remember—that the Prince of Angels was so strong he could wield a war sword one-handed.

So strong, and still holding back. He shoved Jaelle away, rather than scar her for the misstep, then advanced again. 

“Defend!” 

The next counterstrike sent tremors up Jaelle’s left arm and straight into her wings. Her whole side collapsed, then so did she, both arms thrown desperately over her head—but she didn’t drop the sword.

Michael pulled short his next strike with perfect control. He was hardly out of breath. “Better,” he said. “Now get up.”

Jaelle’s whole body was shaking. Her wings twitched with ghost pains as if the blows were still falling. The level ground seemed to tilt. Meanwhile the prince put up his sword with an easy grace.

Jaelle felt like a clod of mud.

“For six thousand years out of practice, you could be worse.”

The second purpose of parade grounds is nefarious, because it isn’t about the audience. 

“Back in line, soldier.”

The second purpose is about the roles played on the stage, the empty masks to be filled. Lines to be learned, exits, entrances, marks and cues…

Jaelle took a step back, and she tried to remember what had just happened. Everything still hurt, but it felt like a blur.

The purpose is about math, too, of course. (Everything is, eventually.) About lines and planes. A mathematician will tell you with a straight face that lines have no width, only length. And that points on a line exist with neither width nor length—

“Attention!”

—nor any dimension at all. They’re just points. One lined up next to the other. Fixed. Predictable. And, with the removal of chaos— 

“Forward.”

— _controlled_.

The drills continued for the rest of the morning. Jaelle did not drop her sword again.

* * *

**B** eelzebub, Lord of the Flies, was taking their pulse. 

It was the third time that morning. It still beat on steadily as it had, immortal and undaunted, for ages. 

But something _felt_ different. 

_“It would be a crazy world,”_ Duke Ligur had once said, _“if demons could go around trusting one another.”_

Whenever the prince looked at Dagon, they wanted to ask if the world had gone crazy. 

That morning the two demons had arrived at St. James Park early, stealing an hour as mortals sometimes did before work. They lounged on the patio of the cafe, because it had opened early without the staff quite understanding why. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. At the intervals, they just smiled for no reason. Beelzebub thought, distractedly, that they would need to get a handle on that at least before going back down to Hell. 

For now, neither demons cared in the least that, rather than their presence that morning strangling St. James Park in nefarious gloom, their brazen affection was rippling out in waves of distraction for miles. It made the ducks quack more cheerfully, the couples walk closer, and even gave the double-agents tailing other double-agents a soft spot for their charges. Today, mischief was as good as mayhem. After all, the looks the two demons were throwing at one another were sinful enough. 

Presently, Beelzebub gave up on their pulse. They were alive. This was real. And they were glad. 

They crossed their ankles on an empty chair because no demon worth their seasalt will apologize for fishnet stockings at eight a.m. 

“Dagon, you’ve restored my sanity,” they said.

Dagon was thoughtfully sipping an espresso and turning the pages in a scarlet folder for the look of the thing. Now and then he stretched a more conscious smile at a passerby, the kind that made a person wonder if such an ominous looking folder were about them and walk faster.

“Why is that, my prince?” he asked.

“I’ve finally figured out what we’re going to do. Can you guess?”

“I shall make no suggestion if you have a plan, my lord.”

Smirking, Beelzebub ordered a second coffee. The drink arrived immediately from the brewing station without the assistance of the waitron, who was nearby, sweeping up. They took a sip. “I’m going to blame Crowley.”

“Oh?”

“You’ll see.” Beelzebub leaned back in their seat and hummed blissfully. “Now where has Hastur gotten to, do you think? The angels are due to arrive soon.”

The question was followed immediately by an electronic trill from someone else’s pocket. Worried and annoyed, Beelzebub’s eyes settling on the embarrassed waitron. The phone trilled again. There was a punch of static to the sound.

The waitron glanced in at the manager, who was scowling. “Thought I turned it off, sir, I…” 

Purposefully, the prince settled back in their seat expectantly. They could out-scowl any mortal manager by miles. “You going to answer that?” they asked.

The unfortunate waitron sidled out of the manager’s eyeline and dug out the still-trilling smartphone. He answered: “Hello, um…” His skin ran the gamut of unhealthy colors, then his eyes fell on Beelzebub. He seemed to calculate. Then he held out the phone.

“A call for Lord Bell Z. Bob, sir?”

The Canaanites hadn’t been too good with vowels either. But you got used to it. The demon prince beckoned with a hand for the phone, then put up their feet on the table and hit _Accept_. “Hastur, where are you?”

 _“A foul morning to you, too, my lord. Didn’t want to wake you_.”

“What makes you think we were asleep?” Beelzebub glanced at Dagon, whose smile curled a little.

“ _Thought I’d get an early start in any case_.”

“Still avoiding the angels?” 

“ _Didn’t you get my note?”_

They had, but on principle demons never say thank you in public. “We’ll leave you to your expertise.”

“ _Don’t need fancy trinkets, do I?_ ”

“Yes, we’ll talk about that when we get back.” They glanced across the patio, and hid away their smile from someone on the footpath. “Our associates are here. We’ll talk later.”

“ _Don’t let them get under your scales._ ”

Beelzebub hung up and returned the waitron’s phone. “Your services to the infernal powers will be noted,” they said. The smile was gracious but the tone was a threat. The waitron, whose name was Peter, wisely decided not to inquire either way, and left to sweep a less worrying corner of the patio.

Across the pond, the woman with the steel gray hair took her seat, and saw to her ducks.

Uriel had arrived across the lake only moments before. She and Sandalphon had been making a slow circuit as the sun rose. Now she stepped up onto the patio and looked after the waitron. She raised an eyebrow. “In trouble already?”

“Evil never sleeps,” said Beelzebub coolly. “We have our pride, as do you.”

“That wouldn’t be very angelic.” The archangel of the sunrise set aside her parasol and miracled salad and tea. Beelzebub noticed a flicker of red fire just under her nails.

“Are we getting an early start?”

“Four hundred years ago would not have been too early,” Uriel said. “You seem well, your lowness.”

“I had a good night. Where’s his highness?”

“I’m afraid Michael’s busy today,” said Uriel. “Didn’t tell me why, but it must be important.”

“It’s all the same,” Beelzebub assured, although it wasn’t. Michael would have asked how a demon had a good night. “But I thought you should know, we’ve had a breakin in Hell.”

* * *

_**N** ot all tyrants are content with champagne. Some play a long game. Not as long as Heaven or Hell, but long enough. They cheer with the masses when the first songs of freedom ring. They gladly seek out and eliminate competition. They consolidate power behind closed doors. They make bribes. Train successors. Promise power. So long as men can be bought—so long as souls can be sold—tyranny does not die. _

_The long-game tyrant can wait and wait for due diligence to fade, for the monster in the dark to become a history, for the history to become a fable, and for the fable to become not even satire, but fantasy. The hero too. And when no one is left who remembers what magic made the hero’s sword strike true, the tyrant, that monster in the dark, enters the light and attacks mercilessly._

* * *

**C** ollected records for the Earth Observation Files are always presented in a clean, well-lit room. It eases the nerves, seeing it all laid out flat and unmoving, harmlessly chronicled in the past tense.

But the collecting is always done in person, and great atrocities require great audiences. Such horrors are neither flat, nor framed, and they are rarely ever clean.

Sirens wailed in the streets and so did people. And somewhere, waiting for the numbers, a tyrant sat down to dinner and said grace.

There’s a passage that goes, _And the L-rd spake unto the seer, saying, “Go and speak to the king and say, ‘Choose one…’”_

Throughout what had once been a first-world city, fires were spitting their last smoke. Their heat raised steam from sewer grates. The damp fed the stink of the dead and the dying. Helicopters rushed by overhead, their blades growling, but so did something else, silent and watchful. Below on bare feet unpierced by the shattered glass, the archangel Michael made his way down broad broken streets with his crown of stars unveiled.

Michael was _not_ walking through a warzone. To call this a war would have been to presume warning shots, negotiations, trained armies. So Michael didn’t call this war. 

The streets were littered with picket signs, and amid these were bodies and blood. Michael fought the urge to look away. He had to spread his wings and open every eye to win the fight, but he did.

He’d seen worse. Caused worse. But this was different.

_And the king said unto the seer, “Let me fall now into the hand of the L-rd—but do not let me fall into the hand of man._

In that moment, Michael couldn’t have agreed with the king more. He glanced skyward towards the Watchers. “You are witnesses,” he called.

“We are witnesses,” they spoke back in a tongue no mortal soul—dead or alive—could hear. The quills of heaven darted quicker than quick, so fast they made shorthand look long. 

When all was recorded to the Prince’s satisfaction, he veiled his crown, put away his wings, closed his eyes, and stood still, shining like lightning in the midst of devastation. 

He was thinking of Pharaoh of Egypt again, and of another king of another kingdom. With Heaven’s eyes off him, Michael sighed and muttered the humbled king’s final plea, seventy _thousand_ souls later: “‘ _But these are sheep. What have they done?’_ ”

Behind him, someone asked, “WILL THAT BE EVERYTHING, YOUR HIGHNESS?”

The words were not Enochian. They simply appeared in the memory as if they’d already been spoken, clear as a freshly etched epithet.

Michael said, “Yes, Azrael. Carry on. And mind the gap.”

“YOU ALSO, YOUR HIGHNESS.”

Azrael never called his brothers by name. It was a courtesy. There was something too unnerving about hearing Death name you before your time.

A presence behind Michael vanished. It was still there though. It was everywhere here. Had been since the beginning. 

There could be no doubt Heaven was in the right now, Michael thought. He pushed the thought of worried green eyes from his recent memory. Staring at that soldier had been like looking into the past, and not in a good way. It was like a bone bruise. One you forgot about until another blow landed. 

He’d done nothing wrong. Angels couldn’t do the wrong thing. Certain ideas though… They needed easing into. Guardians wouldn’t understand. Not like archangels.

Someone gasped, _“My god...”_

Michael spun and drew his sword. He squinted through the steam. What looked like a man cowered back by the smoldering remains of an overturned bus, staring at him. The person had a notable _not-thereness_ to him. 

Michael put away the sword immediately. “No,” he said. And, because he wasn’t there to say things like “Fear not” or “I bring you glad tidings,” he added, “You’re not one of ours.”

A snarl from an alleyway shredded the air—just ahead of razor teeth and glowing red eyes. Fast as shadow flies before light, a hellhound had the soul by the ankles. It sprang away, its catch in tow, claws throwing sulfur sparks. A trailing wail followed the damned soul to Hell.

Michael stared after it. “You’re late, Duke Hastur.”

“You looked busy, your grace.”

In the dark of the alley, Hastur ignored the carnage and lit a hand-rolled cigarette. He cupped his hand against the wind of the hellhound’s passing. He didn’t need a match. 

_[Author’s note: He didn’t need the nicotine either, but he had started the habit because he liked to think he was contributing to global warming, in his own small way.]_

He added, “I was enjoying the show.” He took a long pull and puffed sulfur-tinged smoke. “Heaven, pretending it cares.”

“The souls of the righteous will rest beneath the Throne on High, waiting to be avenged.”

“Good thing patience is a virtue.” Hastur’s coal-black eyes caught no light as they flicked up and down curiously. “Didn’t expect to see you dressed up for the occasion. What happened to your usual threads?”

“Stretching my wings.” Michael let his glory singe a little. “You certainly chose a suitable place for a doorway to Hell.”

“It’s easier to meet at work, eh?” Hastur tossed his cigarette. (Where it landed, maggots sprouted from the asphalt and swarmed.) “Hope it’s a venue fit for a prince.” 

“Is this your doing?”

“Just cleaning up.” The demon said. 

“It was no trouble?”

“I know you don’t like traveling our way, so I’ve found a back door.” Hastur shrugged. “Don’t blame you really: Getting brimstone out of whites? Takes eternity.” 

Michael glanced back once at the baying of a hellhound.

Hastur said, “No worries. They get on without me. Ligur kept them well-trained.” He waved a hand. “Right this way, your grace.” He strode off down the alleyway, his shapeless coat catching the filthiest shadows.

Michael looked up only once, then followed under the empty sky. 

* * *

**U** riel had finished her tea and salad and now sat with her fingers laced prettily on the tabletop. The angel’s report was one of heavy casualties, all on the mortals’ side of course, but she presented her statistics with a steadiness that belied its content. 

“As for our plans,” she concluded, “phase two will be in motion within two weeks. At this rate we’ll have wings over the battleground by summer the very latest, but we’ll need you holding up your end by then to make the next deadline.”

“Of course.” 

“As for the Stone, apparently those two traitors don’t know when to leave well enough alone.”

“Unprovoked even,” Beelzebub said agreeably. “You may want to investigate if there wasn’t a similar breakin in Heaven.”

“As of this morning, the Torch was still safe on the observation deck.” 

“Well, that’s a relief.” 

Uriel frowned at a thought. “Your master doesn’t know about…?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, then I’ll tell Michael immediately whenever he gets back from wherever he went.” Uriel nodded. “No offense, but perhaps we’d better handle this instead of you.”

“None taken.”

Beelzebub took a moment to refill the table’s basket of sugar packets. They plucked them out, one by one, and ripped them open into their newest cup of coffee. The matter had gone over more easily than they’d planned. _Fancy that_ , they thought, _the angel of the sun keeping her cool_. 

“And that’s everything with Michael’s blessing?” they asked. “You have the recipe for brimstone?”

“We keep the text in our library—perfectly legitimate for research purposes.”

“Do let us know if you need any help.”

“I think that will be all then.” Uriel started to rise, reached for her parasol, then hesitated. The children playing across the park looked up worriedly as a sudden, brooding cloud darkened the sun. Uriel glanced at Sandalphon last, calculating. He was about halfway through the _Times_ ’ daily crossword.

“Something else?” asked Beelzebub curiously.

Uriel drew her hand away from the hidden sword. She settled back in her seat, and looked thoughtful. After a moment she leaned forward. “Personally…” She hesitated, then tried the word again, like it was suddenly strange on her tongue. “ _Personally_ , I was wondering about the hounds.”

Beelzebub stirred the steaming hot coffee with one finger. “The hellhounds?”

“They only take the damned?”

Startled by the implication, Beelzebub bit their tongue. They sipped at their coffee thoughtfully next, until only a pile of sugar slush was left to nurse on. At last, just as Uriel started to look impatient, they said, “Why do you ask?”

Uriel relaxed and leaned back more confidently. “I’ve heard they get to go somewhere after. The good humans, that is.”

“‘Good ones’?” Beelzebub feigned confusion. “Everyone’s guilty of something.”

“Is that a promise?”

Dagon and Beelzebub exchanged a look only they could read. Beelzebub said, “I’m not sure an angel should be making a request like this from demons.”

“I haven’t asked for anything, have I?” said Uriel.

She hadn’t. Beelzebub felt… odd… about that. “The truth is,” they said, “if we’re to keep the blame on the humans then, like you, we can’t be _too_ involved.”

“How so?”

“It has to be… fair.” Beelzebub settled on the word that was the simplest. “Without rules everything falls apart. Current policy is anyone who asks for mercy gets it, right? The whole… ‘faith’ thing?”

“They do _have_ to ask.”

“Naturally.”

“In a heartfelt prayer.”

“Yes.”

“Shame if they didn’t have time.”

Beelzebub watched Uriel for a moment without answering, wondering why her words _bothered_ them. They let the sugar sit on their tongue, let it dissolve as a kind of shield against the unpleasant memory of blood in their mouth. 

“Your disgrace?”

“That is true. I’m afraid Hastur is better suited to speak on these things.”

 _[Author’s note: Hastur_ had _spoken about these things, and Ligur before him, but Beelzebub believed in plausible deniability in the name of angels minding their own blessed business.]_

Beelzebub said, “Michael would say to keep our hands clean.”

“It’s not like hellhounds are _willful_ creatures. They just follow the scent. It wouldn’t detract from our end goals,” Uriel added, and smiled even as the sky darkened further. Across the lane on the bench, Sandalphon glanced up worriedly and closed his paper.

“The goal was the End,” Beelzebub pointed out. They wondered at themselves. Why did the method matter? Yesterday it hadn’t. Three years ago, certainly not. 

“Keeping in mind,” said Uriel, “it’s not even a request, Lord Beelzebub.”

“Of course not, but I’ll see what we can do.”

Immediately, Uriel stood and plucked up her parasol. She looked far more satisfied than Beelzebub ever wanted to leave an angel. “By the way,” she added off-hand, “brilliant strategy, filling the air with love about this place.”

“Pardon?” asked Beelzebub.

“It’s practically miasmic. The mortals don’t expect a thing.”

She turned and strolled away, and Beelzebub glanced at Dagon, who returned the stare with a little grin. 

“Is it really, um…?” The Prince of Hell buzzed uncertainly.

Dagon said, “Didn’t expect them to be that dense.”

“That’s no way to talk about our allies, Dagon,” said Beelzebub. “You don’t think Hell will catch on…?” 

“Only angels notice—and they have, and they can’t believe it,” Dagon said. “Kinda ironic.” 

Beelzebub miracled away their empty cups. “How can you?” they asked, and leaned forward with interest. 

“I told you, dear prince, it’s desperation. We’ve not much time left before…” Dagon hesitated and then shut the folder. He seemed to listen to something in the air. “At the heart of it? I _want_ to. Humans do it all the time, don’t they?”

“Humans can. She loves them.”

It was the first time either of them had said such a thing out loud. _[Author’s note: Six thousand years is a long time to wait for a first time.]_ The words hung heavy, like they’d been waiting to be named before they could be truly felt. 

“They believe and things exist.” Dagon stood and tucked the folder under one arm. “And it _makes_ them exist. Why should we be any different?” 

“We’re not creative beings.”

“We used to be.” Dagon offered a hand. While there was nothing more obvious than exuding love across an entire park, Beelzebub still felt their face flush at the thought of just taking it. 

“Lord Dagon, you could tempt a demon to Envy.”

“It is my full intention to tempt you to more than that, my prince.”

Beelzebub accepted the hand and their pulse fluttered, warm and bright. 

Not unlike the beat of a butterfly’s wings.

As they left the park, the old woman on the bench threw the rest of her breadcrumbs to the ducks, and vanished also. 

* * *

**S** trange attractors are the fractal wrenches in a meteorologist’s gears. Unpredictable, they still are reliable on two fronts. One, they are reliably chaotic, and reliability can be comforting; and, two, they make pretty patterns.

The closest door to Hell was a small, jagged cave on a mountainside. It’s opening led to a rocky tunnel that sloped downward into an eerie fog. The door was tangled in dying vines and dark shapes moved within its darker shadows. The cave seemed to be playing this part for an award: “Most likely cave to be entered by a Greek harper with a lot of gall and short-term memory loss.” 

But it was not so bad as the ruined city behind them. Distant sirens still wailed and hellhounds still howled. The updraft brought the stink of it to the forest. When Hastur pushed aside the scraggly vines, Michael followed him down into Hell just to escape it.

It was a change. Since the Fall, Michael had led hordes of locusts into battle countless times, and the maggots had always followed right behind the Hellhounds. As they walked down a spiraling slope, Michael hung back, leaving Hastur in shadow, a red spark straight ahead. (By now the demon had lit another cigarette.)

“You know it’s half our fault,” Hastur said conversationally. “Not all, but about half. The rest is yours, mind.”

Michael didn’t like this idea, so he reminded himself it belonged to a demon. “What makes you say that?” he asked.

“They’re still getting ready for the end of the world, see? They had a taste of it. Like Nimrod at Babel after the Deluge, with that impossible tower and his cult?”

_[Author’s note: There had, in fact, been several towers and not a few ziggurats after the Flood, due to a collective and perfectly understandable obsession with higher ground. Babel was especially infamous for the same reason its king was: Because sometimes language works backwards.]_

“So?” asked Michael.

“Would have saved us some trouble to smite them all that time.”

“When they were actually working together?”

“Ah, I forgot. Your sort like harmony.” But Hastur sounded pleased. “None of that now. That’s what I’m saying. They’re panicking. Hoarding. Culling the herd to save resources for themselves. Preparing their fortified mini-kingdoms with their slaves… No harmony now. That might actually save them.”

“You’re so certain?”

“They were afraid then. They’re terrified now. Fear like that doesn’t just show itself out when the event's cancelled, not in my experience. You put together a good plan, your grace.”

Michael didn’t answer. Taking a compliment from a demon was generally frowned upon. 

Even when they were right. 

* * *

**T** he countryside is not like the city. There have been innocuous children’s stories about this featuring mice. 

Small towns are often thought of as places to get away from it all, but in truth, living in the countryside is the _opposite_ of getting away. There is no crowd to be a face in out there, no rush to get from one point to the next. No, people in the countryside have plenty of time to simply stare at you, ask nosy questions about the weather, and generally pop up where they don’t belong. Newness is suspicious. 

The Bentley had many fine qualities. Immunity to fire and radiation was one of them, but being inconspicuous was not. Even so, Crowley let the engine idle. He waved as Adam hurried to fetch his rucksack from the boot and tail after his friends, and forced smiles for passersby dropping their own teenagers off at the institution. It was disarming. And exhausting.

“You think the teachers will notice?” asked Aziraphale from the passenger seat. 

Beside Adam, Dog looked both ways before crossing the street.

“Not if they don’t want to. Dog knows what he’s doing,” said Crowley. He spoke through a fixed smile. When at last Adam ducked inside, he slouched back in his seat. He tried to relax to the purr of the engine and the dulcet measures of Schübert’s _Hammer to Fall_. “We’ll have to take them back to London with us.”

“Are you certain that’s wise?”

“So long as they’re looking for him, it is. Hardest thing will be hiding the magical glowy thing. Not many places they won’t look.”

Aziraphale’s frown wobbled through several shades of concern. He returned his attention to leafing through the red and blue books. He had removed the creased piece of paper from the blue book. Crowley eyed it on the seat between them like a snake eyes a mongoose.

“How bad is it?” he asked after a moment.

“If they use the Torch to do what you’ve said they can”—Aziraphale shook his head and turned another page—“it will be worse than Sodom.”

“Can I have a look?”

His eyes followed the paper as Aziraphale replaced it. (Aziraphale was being very deliberate about not looking at it.) The angel shimmied over in the seat so the demon could read beside him. 

Page for page, the quartos were nearly identical. There was a half title, an About the Author page, even a Table of Contents with chapter titles like “Locust Keeping.”

They paused at a template for prophetic revelations just for the novelty of it. The first line read, 

> _Peace be upon thee/ye, [PROPHET’S NAME] child of [LINEAGE], thee/ye who art/are highly favored._

Below the script were helpful instructions to not let mortals look directly into one’s divine glory, lest they go blind. There were even warnings to repeat things like “woe” and “beware” three times, but “lo” and “behold” only once. _[Author’s note: “Lo and behold” in tandem is a sign of amateurs.]_

But the blue book had _amendments_. Aziraphale stopped at one page in particular.

“That’s… significant,” said Crowley at last.

Aziraphale tried to smile, but winced instead. “It’s a technicality of language.”

“It’s a technicality of something more rank than that.”

They were staring at two similar but not alike paragraphs. Despite a remarkable number of vowels in both, the differences were simple but obvious. The first read,

> _And should there be ten whom, when to them Goode hath been made possible despite great Evile, great Goode only delightest, who should plea mercy on behalf of the place which would be judged, then shalt thou declare it healed._

In the second it read,

> _And should there be ten whom, when to them Goode hath been made possible despite great Evile, great Evile only delightest, who should repent not on behalf of the place which would be judged, then shalt thou declare it Anathema._

“Didn’t know she made it into their books,” Crowley remarked.

“You know as well as I do what it means, dearest.”

Crowley did know what it meant. Agnes Nutter, professional prophetess and compiler of certain nice and accurate prophecies regarding the End That Wasn’t, had also known. Anathema’s mother, on the other hand, had not, because sometimes Fate relies on people who say, “What a nice name for a girl” without a dictionary close at hand. 

Crowley made a mental note to inform the Device-Pulsifers anyway. You never knew with prophecy. (Well, other people never knew. Anathema did.)

“So the wicked not the righteous chose the fate of everything? Why the revision?” he asked.

“For mercy, I suppose.”

“Mercy?” Crowley barked a bitter laugh. “How?”

The embarrassment that crossed Aziraphale’s face has been found at press conferences and family reunions the world over. “I was at the debriefing after Sodom, much to Gabriel’s shock, I might add. And, at the time, Michael decided that, given the social constraints in Sodom, citizens with less mobility, trapped by debt or enslavement, were daily choosing from multiple evils rather than any true good. Waiting for the number of righteous people to run out before passing judgment simply increased how much evil happened in the meantime: Hell won despite Heaven’s wrath.”

“Babies and bathwater much?”

“I think he’d prefer the traditional expression: ‘tares and wheat.’ And, no, his point was to judge fewer, not more people. And sooner.”

“But this could easily be used in the opposite direction.” Crowley sighed. “Raphael had a reason to make sure we got this, but I don’t know if I want to know what it means. It’s this twisted logic that—”

They both started at a knock on the driver’s side window. Crowley peered up through his sunglasses to find an elderly man looking in on him. The man had a gray, well-trimmed beard. He was cradling a small dachshund. 

Crowley exchanged a wary look with Aziraphale before huffing a sigh and rolling down the window by its crank.

“Help you, good sir?” he said. 

“Morning, gentlemen. I do hope you’re up to nothing _illegal_ in nature, lounging in front of a school in the morning hours dressed as you are?”

He eyed Aziraphale especially, and the angel’s mouth pursed in carefully herded offense.

“Nothing illegal about fashion. And you are?” asked Crowley.

“R.P. Tyler. Neighborhood Watch.”

“Ah, yeah, thought it was you.” Before the man could wonder, Crowley added, “You’re right for concern, sir, actually. Has anyone else been loitering around here lately? Especially in the vicinity of, er, the young folk?”

R.P. Tyler looked taken aback. Crowley guessed this was because (a) he was normally not taken very seriously, and (b) the demon had to be disturbingly familiar, even if memories of the Apoca- _lapse_ had been somewhat muddled by Adam’s big reset. 

Crowley waited patiently, knowing that, short of the Bentley catching fire, the gentleman was unlikely to recall the reasons for item (b).

“I’m not sure I should say,” said R.P. Tyler at last _[Author’s note: which would have been commendable of him, had he not already been composing a letter to the_ Inquirer _in his head about strangers idling in fancy cars]_.

Crowley, however, had done studies on everywhere flattery could get a person. He said, “I’ll level with you, watchman: My companion and I are on the watch ourselves, on a more _national_ scale, if you take my meaning.”

“You don’t mean…?”

“I do,” said Crowley, nodding slowly and emphatically and hoping to Someone the man didn’t ask for specifics. “We’re on the lookout for any individuals that might be after certain youngsters in the area. Promising them trips to Disneyland, vans full of candy, and all that lot.”

The dachshund wriggled insistently while R.P. Tyler considered this. He was looking brighter now, racking his brain for something impressive to report. At last, he set Schutzi down and said, “Well, there were two odd types around here. Sunday, in fact. Crashed their bicycle on the cobbles in the square.”

“Bicycle, singular?”

“They claimed they were _publicans_ ,” said R.P. Tyler.

“What would lawyers be doing out in the middle of Oxfordshire?”

R.P. Tyler’s expression made a few interesting somersaults, especially around the eyebrows. Then he answered, “They claimed they were awarding book prizes.”

“Ah, that’ll do it,” Crowley sighed. He clucked his tongue in disapproval. “Kids these days are loving education and being productive. We’re seeing it more and more, practically an epidemic. The old lures don’t work like they used to. That means the bad guys are getting clever, Mr. Tyler.”

“Well, they weren’t about to try anything on my watch,” said R.P. Tyler. 

Crowley didn’t care to burden the man with what might have happened if the Lord of the Flies had felt like trying anything. Instead, he said, “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Tyler. You hear anything about it, you call me.” He passed a card through the window from a slim card case that had not existed a moment ago. The card looked very official: Black with elegant white lines and a bit of pinstripe, just a tasteful dash of red. There was a flourish about the initialed “J.”

R.P. Tyler’s eyes doubled in size as he took it. “Yes, sir, Mr… Chairman.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows lifted just a fraction as he perused an index.

Crowley added, “And, um, don’t be letting too many people know. Security reasons. Staff at the watch only, how’s that do you?”

“You can count on me, sirs.” The man saluted smartly. “I’ll, er, see they’re informed.”

“Carry on, watchman.”

Crowley leaned out the window as R.P. Tyler marched off, the dachshunds tiny feet a blur keeping up with its master’s self-important pace. Crowley waited until the man rounded a corner, then pulled back inside the car and cranked up the glass.

Looking back, he saw Aziraphale thrust up his chin offendedly. “I would have turned him into a _toad_ , if I’d been feeling kind.”

“And what would that’ve done, angel?”

“It _must_ have been he who pointed Dagon and Beelzebub right to them.”

“And now he won’t. Some people need praise.” Crowley shrugged, “You and I both know that.” 

Aziraphale’s expression softened. “Well, it would have made me feel better,” he confessed.

* * *

**T** he lower levels of Hell were crossed by its typical swaying catwalks and clanking stairways. All were the kind made to creak ominously for dramatic effect. Hastur knew he would enjoy this part of the tour, not because the metal slats threatened to give out under their feet (Hastur knew where to step with his eyes closed), but because, to find his way, Michael, Prince of Heaven, had to look down.

Below them, screaming in agony unspeakable, the eternal wicks of immortal souls burned in fires that were never quenched. Michael finally stopped and fought the reflex to put his hands over his ears. Instead, he gripped the iron rail.

Ahead of him, Hastur paused to look back. “Something troubling your grace?”

“It’s horrible.”

Hastur smiled to himself when he heard the proud voice crack a little. He rolled himself another cigarette from his infinite supply and strolled back to join him. Down here in the pits, Michael shone like a star amid rust. It wasn’t unpretty or unimpressive, but the light trembled if you looked for it. 

“That’s the idea,” he said. “We remodeled last winter. We keep the cheaters and perverts in separate torments now—Dagon’s idea, that one—for the emotional difference.”

“Different torments?”

“Generally, but we keep them all on rotation for the basics. Can’t let something get too normal or the suffering stops.”

“Horrible,” said Michael again, and Hastur bowed this time.

“I appreciate the compliment. I’ll take you round to see the adulterers next time, shall I?” 

Michael didn’t move, still peering into the darkness. Hastur lit the stub with his finger and leaned in. “We should be moving on, your grace. It’s not good that they see you.”

“What do you mean?” asked Michael.

“All that holy light you’re radiating. Dulls the sting.”

“I suppose it gives them hope.”

“What for?” Hastur sneered.

Michael was quiet a moment, then his expression stiffened. He said, coldly, “My point exactly.” 

The cigarette burned down nearly half an inch as Hastur stood shocked still in amazement. At last he recovered his wits and muttered through one hand, “Ligur never mentioned the constructive criticism.”

“I’m sure he never mentioned a lot of things.” 

Hastur tamped down on an unexpected flare of jealousy. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “I thought you were supposed to be an angel of Her mercy.”

“Maybe to the living.” Michael backed away from the rail, preening a little. “But as you pointed out, your disgrace, judgment is something we can all agree upon.” 

He took three steps but missed a plank and his foot plunged through the gap. Hastur was at his side in an instant, catching his arm. The act surprised both of them. They stood like that a moment, Michael’s eyes fixed on the roiling flames below, Hastur’s eyes fixed on Michael.

“Long drop,” Hastur warned belatedly. 

“Not with wings.” 

“Suppose not.” Hastur drew back as Michael righted himself. Reflexively, the demon wiped his hand on his own sleeve. “Sorry about your…”

He dusted at the robe. The ash fell away from the linen like it was afraid of it. Michael nodded stiffly, and Hastur cleared his throat. They moved on. Hastur felt bothered. If it wasn’t the torment, then what was bothering His Royal Shininess?

“You seem tired, your grace,” said Hastur. “Have I kept you overlong?”

“Not at all. But before you show me out, I’d hoped to see Lord Beelzebub. Will they be back soon?”

“Not for awhile yet, I’m afraid,” Hastur shoved one hand into the pockets of his grubby macintosh. “I’d let you stay long as you like”—He pretended not to see the angel shudder—“but I’m due in East Africa this afternoon. I plan on lying to priests about the proper use of condoms, to aid our cooperative efforts, of course.” 

“I thought Beelzebub had pinned you for Envy.”

“Dagon and I tossed a coin. You’d be surprised how often Envy and Lust go hand-in-hand with mortals. Not like us at all.”

“How so?”

“With ethereals, it’s usually that and Pride.”

“You’re not ethereal. You’re occultic.”

“I prefer the term _infernal_.” 

Michael scoffed, and (carefully) picked up speed, still fixing sleeve cuffs that didn’t need fixing. 

Hastur cleared his throat. “I expect it’ll be fun,” he said. “How’s your role in this little venture?”

“I’ve done nothing,” said Michael. “That’s the point.”

“Right,” sighed Hastur. “Get the lot to damn themselves, make ’em so bad it’s practically a mercy killing.”

“And you were _assigned_ Envy.”

“You can’t rush craft,” said Hastur, cutting across his path and turning to look him once up and down. “You’d have made a terrible demon, your grace—”

“I appreciate the compliment.” Michael pushed past him, tested another slat and continued along the bridge a bit faster. He called, “We don’t have time for fun, Duke Hastur.”

“Shame,” Hastur called after him. “That’s what we all said before Armageddon, wasn’t it? ‘No time for fun. Gotta get ready for the Big Avocado.’”

“Avocado?”

“That’s what the troops liked to call it.” Hastur gave the prince a head start, then caught up with an easy stride. “But _six thousand_ years of planning, think on that?”

“You think I haven’t?”

“So do I—every day. Every day for three years. After six thousand _bloody_ years.” Hastur pinched out the cigarette. He pitched it into the misery below, then cut the prince off at the door. “You know they were _bloody_ years. And then what? No orders to the contrary than to pack up and go home. Humans get to keep existing, keep on _sinning_ , keep on being forgiven or damning themselves. How long did She give us? Six days?”

“Just about.”

Hastur scoffed. “I’d rest my case.” 

“What case is that?”

Hastur smiled, folded his arms, and leaned against the door. Instead of answering, he said, “You know, I still remember the Fall. Aside from the nosedive, I like how things worked out.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am—I think about what I was then and what I am now, and I like who I am. How about you?”

“I’ve no regrets,” said Michael quickly. 

A little too quickly. Hastur bit his tongue. He leaned sideways as Michael reached for the door handle, blocking his hand, said, “That leaves me curious, what with this plan of yours: Six thousand years, but it wasn’t until after Armageddon _didn’t_ happen that you chose to act like you cared.”

“I realized we have a lot in common,” said Michael with forced patience.

“An epiphany then?”

“You could call it that.”

“Took your time.”

“You don’t even know what it was.”

“I do know.”

“You can’t.”

“It’s no secret here that we’re both unloved.”

There was flash like lightning and Hastur held very, very still, because suddenly his back was pressed against the door and Michael’s sword shone at his throat. All the archangel’s eyes were open and narrowed like shards of fire, glaring out of star-white wings.

Hastur choked, but stared, more fascinated than frightened. “Touched a nerve, have I?”

Michael didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. The only sound was the brush of angel feathers. Even in Hell they whispered _hallelujahs_ against the dark despite the bared red rage. 

Hastur said carefully, “I apologize if I’ve offended.” He swallowed. “Wasn’t my intention, your grace.”

For another moment, Michael couldn’t speak. He was calming down, the red eyes darkening to a prideful violet tinged by orange disgust. But his sword didn’t move. 

Hastur said, “If you wish to discorporate me here, dear prince, that is your prerogative. Nothing I can do about it. But…, given our own don’t know about our little arrangement, it may be better not to raise a fuss. His Majesty might be bothered especially.”

“Why would anyone care about a _maggot_ like you?”

“Not like Her, is he? Doesn’t just leave us alone and expect us to know what to do…”

“I know what to do. Angels always do what’s right.”

“ ’Cept that one time we didn’t.” Hastur shrugged (carefully). “Just being honest. Undo me here and he’ll know. Thought we were trying to avoid that.”

“Be careful who you tempt to Wrath, demon.”

“Why, dear prince? Afraid to fall?”

It was a risk, but then, he’d been told it would be. Nothing ventured… and all that. 

The eyes cracked with wary jade. Michael’s staring wings shut their lids and folded carefully inward. Very slowly, the angel stepped back and lowered the sword. 

He said, “You’d really tell my brother about our arrangement?”

“I’m saying word would get back to him, is all.” Hastur cringed back against the door, one grubby hand wringing his neck warily. “Didn’t mean it to sting. Just saying what’s fact.”

He didn’t move until the sword vanished from the archangel’s hand. 

“I... apologize,” said Michael, which was startling. He looked away, wiped a hand on his sleeve. “Why would you say that anyway?”

“Because it was only six days,” Hastur replied, “and She didn’t even ask why, and She never has.”

Michael didn’t answer. Instead he said, “I’ve been taking up too much of your time.”

Hastur immediately opened the door for him. He followed him through it, then up the stairs. “It’s quite alright,” he said politely, like nothing had happened, “to admit the truth, at least between each other, now that we’re on the same side.”

Again, the prince didn’t seem to hear him. “I suppose you’ll expect me the same time next month.”

“Actually, how about we meet at your place next?”

“You’d probably find it boring.”

“You’re not especially enjoying yourself.”

“That is not the point.”

“And that is my point.”

Michael shrugged this off and flinched as something in his wings spasmed. He said, “It’ll be awhile yet before Heaven’s ready for another demon visit. Next month, same time. A different entrance.”

“Are we worried about being found out?”

“And I’ll call you.”

Eventually they came out at the mouth of the cave. The stink of the city choked the air with smoke worse than when they’d left. 

“Well,” said Hastur, lighting another cigarette for the way back. He turned away: “I’ll let Lord Beelzebub know to be in touch.”

“Why?”

“Because you said—”

“No.” Michael tore his eyes away from the scarred city and Hastur turned back at the mouth of the cave. He had one hand jammed back into the pocket of his coat. For a moment, they only stared at one another. Then Michael said, “Why did you follow my brother?”

“Well, I suppose…” Hastur broke off and shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “It’s not important now. A good day to you, your grace.”

He slipped back into the darkness, humming tunelessly all the way back down. 

Michael cast one last worried glance at the city, then vanished in a bolt of rising light.

* * *

**O** ver the West Gate of Heaven’s lowest rung arc the words _Diligite Justitiam, qui judicatis terram_. Because angels like Latin as much as the next person. 

Michael landed at the foot of the steps as impressively as the fall of a comet. As gossamer shreds of white light cleared, his wings spasmed in pain and he lost his footing. He dropped onto the lowest step and tried to catch his breath.

“Damn that Hastur all over again,” he muttered. He turned and sat heavily, brushing at his sleeve, staring out at the dome of stars surrounding the Empyrean. Something like a hairline crack seemed to run across the heavens themselves, like the faintest trace in a mended china cup. Michael rubbed at his eyes. The fatigue was getting worse. 

_I’ll need to see Raphael again_ , he thought. He really should check on Gabriel too. And find out from Uriel how the meeting went. But the steps didn’t seem a bad place for a nap, all things considered. The West Gate was generally quiet.

At last he did the most practical thing, which was pulling out a comb and a handful of pins and doing up his hair. After centuries it had become a kind of ritual. There was something comforting about fixing all that wild glory fire into place.

A few moments later, he was startled when a voice called, “Lord Michael?”

Michael’s hands froze between pinning two curls. He was unsurprised when he looked up, which was odd: A voice shouldn’t be so easy to recall after one meeting. 

At the top of the steps, a sparrow-winged angel shrank smaller as their eyes met, and bowed her head. Michael recognized the emerald green at a glance. He nodded to a place beside him and she hurried down and sat, tucking her wings close.

“What are you doing here, soldier?” Michael asked tiredly. Something in the back of his mind said, _Jaelle, her name is Jaelle_.

“Lord Uriel said you were out, so I…”

“You were waiting?”

She nodded timidly.

“I wanted to apologize.”

“I’ve righted half a myriad of soldiers during training, soldier. Don’t be proud.”

“I’m sorry. I just… I’m worried. I feel like I don’t know what we’re fighting.”

Michael stuck in the last of his pins with a practiced smile. “Start with doubt, soldier. It will help you sleep at night.”

“Are we really at peace with the demons?”

Fingers now unoccupied, Michael’s hand fell to his sleeve again. “As much as warsome creatures can be at peace with us,” he said, and grimaced at her disappointment with unexpected sympathy. “The world should have ended three years ago, soldier.”

“Yes, your grace,” Jaelle answered dutifully.

“It’s only been getting worse, but we can fix it. You won’t let me down, will you?”

Jaelle looked put on the spot. She nodded quickly, then looked embarrassed at her own eagerness. She hugged her knees and curled her toes. “No, your grace. I mean, I won’t let you down, your grace. Or Heaven. Or _Her_.”

Michael glanced up through the lattice of Heaven, then sighed and stood up. He patted Jaelle’s shoulder. “Get some rest. You and the others will be getting your corporations tomorrow. It’ll be a long day.”

Jaelle’s wings twitched, startled. “We’re… we’re fighting on Earth?”

Michael paused halfway up the stairs. He was too tired to be angry. “Let the archangels worry about that,” he said. “I expect you at the parade ground bright and early.”

“Yes, Lord Michael.”

Michael glanced back at the top of the steps and frowned. 

“You are the only recruit who’s bothered to apologize,” he allowed. “We’ll talk again sometime.”

He turned away before she could answer and dropped his smile. Like looking into the past still. Startlingly so. Though his own eyes had never been so green. 

* * *

**I** t is said the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. This is untrue. Like any miserable office space, off-color linoleum is the norm. Every hallway has that one cracked tile that’s ready to give up and skid across the floor under an unwary step. 

Hastur always knew how to avoid it. In the dark the demon followed a wall, taking one stair downward, then another one, and then quite a few more.

To the Ninth Circle.

“And how is my dear brother?”

Hastur approached the throne with a bow, even a little flourish, because he was in a good mood. At last, he pulled his hand from his pocket and placed something in the devil’s outstretched palm. Its light caught in the rings on the King of Hell’s fingers, but not in Hastur’s coal-black eyes. 

The feather shone brighter than anything hidden away in the wardrobe. The devil ran it between his fingers and its vanes rippled with a sound like distant chimes. 

“Well done, Duke Hastur. The other one I’d nearly burnt out.”

“A matter of curiosity, my lord, but why not inform their lowness the prince rather than waiting so long?” Hastur asked. He stared at the white pinion, rubbing his hands uselessly on his coat. “We’ve demons who specialize in nightmares. Anything at your request.”

“Best not to bother them. Besides," said the devil, and grinned like a cat, “this matter’s personal.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of the seer is from 1 Chronicles 21 are paraphrased from the KJV and JPS English translations. (Fun fact: verse 12 seems to mention all the horsepersons, so I guess this was before they started outsourcing that sort of thing.)
> 
> More of Crowley and Aziraphale next time! I didn’t want this to run too long(er than usual).


	11. Chapter the Eleventh - Faith, Hope, and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because true witchcraft is about as misunderstood as chaos, Adam had decided it was best to introduce Anathema as his American tutor. That way, if anything odd slipped out in conversation, fellow Tadfield residents would dismiss it as something to do with “those crazy Americans,” and they would get to feel very cultured about themselves for not understanding one bit of it._

* * *

**T** he visit to Tadfield did, of course, involve apple tart. 

The crust of a perfect tart is not a pie crust. (This is a common misconception.) A tart stands up on its own. There is flour and butter and salt, but also sugar and egg. A food processor or stand mixer are convenient tools, but the perfect tart predates these modern conveniences, springing up somewhere in Italy in the mid-1500s. (Aziraphale could have told anyone.) 

Currently, the angel had doffed his jacket and waistcoat and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He wore an apron on which was stitched “Let Me Eat Cake.” Beside him, Deirdre’s own apron read, “All Hail the Chef.”

Together, they pulled two ceramic mixing bowls and several chilled pans and cutting boards from the refrigerator and set them out for the next step in the week’s daily ritual. 

“This is looking much better than yesterday Aziraphale. You’ll be opening a bakery of your own next.”

The praise made the angel rock on the soles of his feet, beaming. “I cannot thank you enough, Deirdre. My own kitchen is, I’m afraid, a bit narrow.”

“Anytime, dear. There is something so satisfying about making your own food,” Deirdre replied. She expertly rolled the flattened dough around her rolling pin. With a flourish, she rolled it out again over the next tart pan. 

“You make it look easy.”

“Oh, you just have to take care with it. I’ll do it slowly. Watch…” 

Deirdre Young was the sort of person who thinks, not little of their talents, but exactly what they ought to think of them. Much like Adam, she assumed people were kind and reasonable and caring because they couldn’t help themselves around her.

This week Deirdre had spent her time in the garden with Crowley and in the kitchen with Aziraphale. The Youngs could not quite remember when they’d first met the delightful couple, but they certainly knew (or thought they knew) why the pair were Adam’s godparents. Everything was just more pleasant with them around. The family was happier. The food was tastier. And Crowley and Arthur often spent evenings after supper bonding over the underappreciated virtue of diligence (in the form of regular automobile maintenance).

Presently, Crowley sauntered up to the open kitchen window and leaned in. He wore gardening gloves and a woven straw hat.

“Dierdre, the wisteria’s strangling itself on the trellis. You mind if I prune back a bit?”

“Not at all, Crowley. That would be a great help.” 

_[Author’s note: The Youngs understood that only Aziraphale was allowed to call Crowley by his first name, and they both thought it was sweet.]_

“Will do,” said Crowley.

“You must miss your own plants,” added Deirdre, stirring a pot of slowly heating apples and sugar.

“Oh, they’ll behave while I’m gone. They know better.”

Deirdre smiled at what she took to be a jest, and Crowley strode off purposefully towards the garden trellis. She noticed Aziraphale frowning over the egg wash.

“Oh, don’t worry too much. We’ll see how they’ll bake. And there’s always tomorrow.”

Aziraphale realized he wasn’t smiling, corrected the error, and gathered up the scraps of dough. Deirdre slid the finished pans into the refrigerator for one last chill. 

“Is something the matter?” she asked.

“Not especially.”

Eventually, Deidre beckoned him over to the stovetop and they set to seasoning the apples. Soon a sweet and spicy aroma wafted through the kitchen, blending perfectly with the hazy scent of flour and butter. 

She waited for the tension to leave Aziraphale’s shoulders, then asked, “How are your other hobbies coming?”

Aziraphale brightened again. “Well, now that I’ve completed that antique book collection I mentioned, I’ve taken up painting again,” he said. “It’s quite relaxing, in fact. Adam has asked that I paint his friends once I’ve improved a bit.”

“Right, the reenactments.” Deirdre smiled in appreciation. “I think two hobbies is the perfect amount. I have baking for when I want to be orderly, and gardening to remind myself not everything can be.”

“A little order, a little chaos?” Aziraphale suggested.

“I don’t think we’d be people without both.”

Aziraphale rolled a tin of cinnamon between his palms before opening it. “Deirdre, if I might ask a personal question…”

“Of course.”

“With Arthur, if you think something is bothering him, do you bring it up or does he?”

Out the window, they could both see Crowley had set aside the pruning sheers to scold the wisteria. He had a hand on his hip and was shaking a finger, though his voice didn’t carry.

Deidre didn’t miss the line of Aziraphale’s stare. “I might ask if something’s the matter, but I usually wait for him.” She gave the pot a stir. “Everyone’s different, but I’ve found that just being available and willing to listen is really what he needs.”

“And if he needs to talk but won’t?”

To his surprise, Deirdre laughed. “Would that be really about _his_ needs? If I push for conversation before Arthur’s fully figured out his own thoughts, then we’re both confused and it gets us nowhere. But”—Deirdre patted his arm—“it doesn’t mean you can’t tell Crowley that you’re worried, Aziraphale. Your feelings are just as valuable.” 

“I, um, well…”

“But we were talking about Arthur.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale glanced back into the garden one more time. Crowley had moved on to checking the roses for aphids, his hands turning each leaf gently. “Of course.”

* * *

**_M_ ** _y L-rd Almighty_ , thought Raphael, handing another clipboard to a nurse.

All doctors were on call in the healers wing that afternoon. The main ward was full to brimming, and a line still stretched to the foyer. It was injuries for the most part. Generally, they were minor, but having a physical body for the first time meant an angel didn’t know what minor _was_. Just bleeding for the first time could be terrifying.

And then there were the bad wounds. 

“Combat training,” Raphael murmured, looking over a fresh set of forms. “Day three, and already combat training…”

General injuries could be fixed with miracles, but ethereal weaponry was its own animal. Currently, Raphael had a team of nurses on triage sorting charts for each injury and preparing splinting and stitch kits for each bed as needed. They had five boxes of charts thus far and no sooner was one empty that it filled again with the next lot. 

They were all making headway, though it would be awhile. Raphael caught himself holding his breath as he picked up the next chart. He took a step back from it, then decisively sent a quick note off to Michael instead. He only had half a hope for an answer.

“Everything alright, Lord Raphael?” asked Ariel at the front desk. 

“G-d, give me patience—but not too many,” Raphael answered with a smile. Returning to the ward, he grabbed the next chart and splint kit with new resolve, and headed up the long aisle of hospital beds.

He counted until he reached one halfway down the right-hand wall, where a guardian angel was sitting up in bed, wincing at a laceration on his leg. Nevertheless, he looked otherwise no worse for wear. His companion, another guardian from the parade ground, was holding a compress to his leg made from her own shawl. Her wings were out and shedding a golden, pain-numbing aura as profuse as her apologies.

Raphael watched in surprise. _Where did she learn to do that?_ he thought. 

“I really should have been paying more attention, Mat,” she was saying. “Please don’t be mad.”

“Jaelle, nothing you do has _ever_ made me mad. Irritated maybe. Slightly concerned. Often amused. But never mad.”

Raphael smiled a little, but he had to interrupt. 

“Matarael?”

“Yes, Lord Raphael?”

“This is a place of healing. I’ll have no weapons in my ward.”

He nodded to a spear behind them, which leaned against the wall. 

“Oh, sorry, sir.” Quickly Matarael reached for the spear and with a touch stowed it away in the ether. 

Raphael let his expression soften as he joined Jaelle at the bedside. “I do wish you guardians would stop calling me, ‘sir’ like I’m some sort of general.” He laid the chart on the foot of the bed and took over the compress, nudging her away gently. “I’m just medical staff.”

“But, Lord Raphael,” said the other, “you were part of the first emissaries to Abraham. And before that, you—”

“You’re Jaelle?” Raphael asked, glancing at the chart.

“Yes, I, um, helped him get here.”

For some reason this made Matarael laugh.

Raphael set to cleaning the wound. “So… no bones broken, but the laceration will need to be kept still. I’m going to have to treat this with stitches and a splint.” He pulled a suture kit from a cubby on the wall. “Good thinking with the compress, and the wings, Jaelle. You’ll need that when you’re in the field.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not a ‘sir.’ Now, tell me what happened”.

Both angels blushed. Matarael glanced at his companion, then murmured, “My spear and I had an argument.”

“And who started it?”

“It was my fault, si—your glory,” Jaelle broke in as he worked. “I was distracted. I didn’t move in time.”

“And I moved to compensate for Jaelle not moving,” Matarael finished.

“What was the distraction?”

Jaelle blushed again.

“Are you two often distracted from your duties?” 

“No, sir,” said Matarael quickly. “I mean, we’re new at this, so…”

Raphael cleared his throat. “It’s just, I know for a fact that someone installed Minesweeper in every cubicle of the guardian department.”

“You… do?”

“There was an increase in carpal tunnel a while back.” 

“Oh, Mat’s not at all distracted, your grace,” Jaelle spoke up. “He’s an excellent guardian. All his charges lived to be in their eighties and nineties, except the last one, but that was…”

“It was happening to a lot of us,” Matarael finished, “on account of the world getting worse since the Apocalypse failed. More and more guardians are being reassigned to the armed forces.”

Raphael forgot to smile. “What was that?”

“The End of the World failed. That’s what Lord Michael says,” Jaelle clarified. “That’s why there’s all these disasters everyday. Since the world was meant to end three years ago, there were no plans to check the increase of evil, and now we’re all behind; and it’s just getting worse and worse, so no one’s listening for the Voice of G-d anymore.”

“I see…” Raphael spent the last of the stitches looking down in order to reaffix his smile. Next he folded Jaelle’s shawl and set it in a hazard bin for cleaning. “What was this distraction then?”

“I thought I heard someone call my name.”

Raphael looked up immediately. “What?”

“It was nothing. I must have imagined it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, because I thought it came from the…” Jaelle hesitated, then looked around the ward. “It’s nothing. I’ve been under a lot of stress.”

Raphael finished with the splint, then picked up the chart, frowning in thought.

“Stay off this for the rest of the day, Matarael. Jaelle, maybe help your friend down to Eden to take a breather. You soldiers all need food and fresh air now. Don’t forget.”

“We have training…”

“Which you cannot do unless you heal.” Raphael made a gesture and a pair of silvery crutches appeared against the wall in the spear’s place. “I’ll let Lord Michael know if he asks after you.”

“Yes, your glory.”

Raphael smiled warmly. He turned away, but then turned back again on a thought. “Jaelle, was it?”

“Yes?”

Raphael glanced around the busy ward, then said, a bit quieter, “If you hear someone call your name, it doesn’t hurt to answer. Just in case.”

Matarael and Jaelle exchanged a puzzled look.

“In case of what, sir?” asked Jaelle.

“I told you, no need to call me ‘sir.’”

Raphael headed back up the lane towards his chemist’s bench. He couldn’t talk to Michael soon enough. 

* * *

**T** adfield Upper Secondary had a half-day, so after lunch Crowley went with the Them into the forest to inspect the demons’ point of departure. The stink of bad fish and sulfur still hung on the place. Some of the soil and moss had peeled back and there was bone-white chalk coming up through in spars, likely in protest of demons drilling down into it.

Dog hopped about the area immediately, sniffing its perimeter and then pouncing on dead flies. 

In the distance, Crowley could make out the sound of cars passing on the highway. 

For the past three years, Crowley had been very attentive to the infernal traffic around Tadfield. But for the airbase, Hell and Heaven had both shied away. At first it had seemed a matter of bruised pride, but talk of the bicycle had him curious.

Pepper had brought her sketchbook and was mapping the hollow.

“Dead bugs everywhere,” she observed. “It’s disgusting.”

“Leaders in Heaven and Hell get along well with swarms,” Crowley explained. “Caretakers and captains, they’re born to it.”

“Guess leading isn’t good or bad,” said Adam. 

“And how’s the art reenactment coming along?”

“We’ve moved on to Michaelangelo,” said Adam. “But we’ve changed what it’s called.”

“Oh?”

“We’re going to be ‘political reenactors,’” announced Wensleydale. “It’s only proper that young people of our age and status use our advantages to promote awareness of the ecological and socioeconomic troubles of our age.”

“We’ll be like actors who don’t move,” Adam clarified.

“And we’ll use symbolism,” added Pepper. “Art’s full of symbolism.”

“Michaelangelo is an interesting place to start,” Crowley mused. “ _Epifania_ , the Sistine Chapel, the _Last Judgment_ …”

“That would be ironic, that last one,” said Brian. “We learned what that was today.”

“We learned three years ago,” said Pepper.

“I meant we learned ironic,” said Brian.

“Excuse me, but wouldn’t art be _iconic_?” asked Wensleydale.

“So icony instead of irony?” Brian suggested.

“It would be both,” said Adam. His voice pitched a little. “But, um, I say we do it with clothes. They’re much more symbolism in clothes.”

“I was sure being naked could be political,” said Wensleydale, “occasionally, and in good taste.”

“No, no, I think the earth was just warmer back then,” said Adam quickly. “It’s getting cooler now. “It can be symbolic, wearing clothes.”

“A good point,” said Wensleydale. “Iconic _and_ symbolic.”

“And ironic,” said Pepper.

“Clothes ought to be ironed,” Brian provided.

“Good thoughts, all,” Crowley said, as Dog began digging at the cracks in the ground. 

“Aziraphale said he’d try and paint us next time,” said Adam excitedly. “We could make a political statement.”

Pepper stuck her pencil behind her ear. “Iconic, ironic, symbolic, and… politic?”

“Political,” Crowley provided shortly, because, art appreciator though he was, he wasn’t going to extrapolate on his own views of religious art. 

Dog barked, and Crowley went to see what he was about.

The retired hellhound had dug up a small, iridescent scale. Crowley recognized it for what it was and gave it a prod. It was the size of a large coin.

“Dagon,” he muttered. Dog barked in confirmation. “Good dog.” He gave Dog an appreciative scratch between the ears and Dog wagged his tail.

Over the next rise, something went _squeak_.

Crowley snapped his fingers and within a five meter radius the wind in the trees went still. So did the leaves. And the flowers. Everything did.

To the outside observer, it would seem that Crowley had stopped Time. It seemed like Adam and The Them, and even Dog, weren’t moving. Meanwhile, everything outside the hollow went on as easily as it pleased. 

What Crowley had actually done was an old architect’s trick. Molding atoms into stars, after all, involved more than your typical potter’s wheel. An artist needs to stand back and appraise the work now and then, and so he’d stepped outside the time—lowercase “t”, of course—in the hollow, to study each atom’s movement frame by frame. 

However, anyone with substantial experience with Time—uppercase “T”—knows that Time has _weight_. Crowley felt it piling up around the blockage, like a building flood. Like stones in the tide, Immortals can push back on Time, but not indefinitely.

Crowley had only a moment. 

Again, something went _squeak_.

Crowley strode up the hill and peered past the old oak tree. He relaxed when he saw the source of the noise. 

Mr. R.P. Tyler was repairing a pink bicycle. He’d turned it downside up, standing it on its handles while he checked the gears one by one. He was muttering to himself, as people often do when they think they’re alone. Now and then, an especially vindictive interjection of “vandals” or “hooligans” made it up the slope. 

Fixed by her leash to the nearest sapling, Schutzi looked on inquisitively as R.P. Tyler dropped a wrench into a battered looking toolbox and wiped perspiration from his brow. He picked up a patch kit and started on the tires. 

Relieved, Crowley slipped back down into the hollow. He snapped his fingers again. There was a little rush of movement as the lowercase time caught up with the uppercase one.

“What was that?” asked Adam, remarking only on the first _squeak_. 

Crowley climbed the hillock and looked down again. Then he beckoned The Them and Dog.

At the sight of Schutzi, Dog ducked his nose between his paws. 

“A bicycle?” Pepper whispered.

“How Dagon and Old Beelzebub got in,” Crowley explained. 

“But it’s so… normal,” she said.

“Yeah, but humans have to use paranormal means to enter Heaven or Hell.”

“Like Dante?”

“Nah, he just knew the right people.”

“But the other demons arrived at the airbase fine, and you come and go. What makes this different?” asked Pepper.

“My guess is this village is Adam’s,” Crowley tried to explain. “Because—long story short—destiny or what-have-you made the arrangement for the sake of the apocalypse.”

“The one that didn’t happen?”

“Best laid plans and all that.”

R.P. Tyler laid a small air pump down in his toolbox and gave each tire a careful push with his thumb. Satisfied, he righted the bicycle and stepped back to give it one more look over. 

“Well, they’re not going to add the misery of a missing bicycle to their crimes, Schutzi. To the Lost and Found.”

He gave the bicycle a push. The front wheel was bent at the spokes, and so it rolled as smoothly as a dodecahedron might. The gears had rusted (since exposure to evil energy encourages entropy), but on the second push he got it a few inches, then stopped for breath.

“You know, Adam,” Crowley said quietly, “Aziraphale and I were wondering at the efficiency of your Neighborhood Watch. I don’t suppose you’d mind running reconnaissance?”

“You mean infiltratration?” Adam whispered excitedly. He looked at the Them, who were warily glancing between him and R.P. Tyler. “Like spies?”

“If you like.”

Brian and Wensleydale instantly beamed. 

“You think Mr. Tyler’s part of the enemy camp, Mr. Crowley?” asked Pepper.

“Oh, quite the opposite. He might have maps of the area, news clippings of strange goings on. Seems the type.”

“He doesn’t like us much,” said Adam. 

“You could ingratiate yourselves,” suggested Crowley. “That means make him like you. Help push that bicycle for starters. Good manners go a long way. Element of surprise.”

“Wicked,” Adam agreed. “Okay, let’s go.”

“We’ll meet back at the house for supper.”

“Sure thing. Dog, stay with Uncle Crowley.”

Dog glanced once at Schutzi and waddled backwards with a whine.

“Be good, Dog.”

Dog sat up and barked, so Crowley slipped around the oak tree at the last minute. It wouldn’t do for the Neighborhood Watch to spot him again so soon.

It was an astonished R.P. Tyler who found himself confronted with not one but four offers of assistance a moment later: Adam to push the bicycle, Wensleydale to carry the toolbox, and Pepper to walk Schutzi. As Brian explained their recent hobby, Crowley marched back down to the bottom of the hollow and pushed aside a bit more of the dirt. Dog followed, ready to assist, glancing back only once.

“Trouble in love?”

Dog whined.

“These things take time. Honestly, I think she’s a bit young for you.”

Dog whined again. 

“Well, I know the rest of Hell’s kennels are taken, but you were an odd duck there anyway.” Crowley fished the scale out of the hole and buffed it on his shirt. It flashed like a fish in the flood. “No good leaving this here,” he muttered. He raised his other hand, ready to douse it in fire with a snap. (He could technically _will_ wanton destruction within his vicinity. Most demons could. But he’d always thought that lacked style.) 

Then, he hesitated.

It was the first time he remembered doing so. As a matter of fact, he did this sort of thing all the time, caused loose feathers and other occultic detritus to burst into flame. The few decades he’d decided to remain a snake for a change in pace, he’d even done so with shed skins. It was safer that way. Supernatural beings took their own safety in their hands if they didn’t know where all the bits of them were at any time.

But this time, Crowley had a thought. 

At last, he put the scale in his trouser pocket instead, opposite his mobile.

“Come on, Dog,” he said. “Let’s get back to Aziraphale.”

* * *

**S** ince the conversation with Jaelle and Matarael, Raphael had taken over at the chemist’s bench, suddenly very much wanting to be found listening. Now he carefully adjusted the speed on a melodious centrifuge until it slowed to a stop. One by one, he unplugged a dozen different harmonies. Each vial had a carefully written label attached.

He set them in a rack, which disappeared into the ward almost immediately with the help of the wing’s go-for, Myriad. Soon enough it was replaced with an empty one and a new set of prescriptions. She didn’t talk much, but Myriad was always a great deal of help when you needed a helping hand or ten thousand.

As Raphael measured out fresh ingredients, he tested each one with a tuning fork and watched the colors flutter with the proper resonance. Presently, Nathaniel, head of internal medicine, ducked in amid the general traffic. _[Author’s note: Internal medicine, as it applies to angels, requires expertise so varied that Nathaniel’s knowledge was the Earth equivalent to a doctorate in both medicine and thermonuclear dynamics, plus roughly six thousand years’ experience.]_

He said, “Lord Raphael, we have a new dozen who just came back from lunch hour on earth,” he reported. 

“What’s the problem?”

“Food poisoning, looks like. Or perhaps overeating. They say they each had something called a ‘giga burger’?” 

Raphael sighed as he loaded the centrifuge again. “Do me a favor, Nathaniel,” he said. “Make a notice and put it up in the barracks downstairs: No fast food, no street meat, and absolutely nothing with the words ‘aphrodisiac’ in the advertisement.”

“We haven’t had a case of that last one, your glory.”

“Let’s keep it that way. Since we didn’t see the ‘giga burger’ coming.”

Nathaniel chuckled a little, “Yes, your lordship.”

“And Nathaniel, did the laundry come back yet?”

“Yes. I can drop it off at the barracks if you like.”

“I’ll run it up later. I need to stretch my wings,” Raphael said. “You take a break. You look tired.”

“Sure thing.”

Nathaniel hurried out, bowing on the way as Michael approached the doorway. The prince was smiling, but there was fatigue in the slump of his shoulders. Raphael’s trained eye caught right away. 

“Your highness,” Raphael acknowledged. “Did you get my message?”

“I did. Is now a bad time?”

“We don’t have bad times,” said Raphael. 

“You certainly have your hands full though.”

“Not unexpectedly. Are you well, your grace?”

“It’s been a busy couple of days, between the training and reporting on the growing disasters to the EO Archive.”

“You’ve been traveling between Earth and Heaven?”

“As duty requires.”

“It would be better if you gave your wings a chance to rest. Use the ladder at least.”

“Did you call me here for a scolding, Raphael?”

“I’m beginning to think I might have to.”

“Well, I could give you one about those library books you're always keeping past due.”

Raphael felt the jest like a blow. He didn’t flinch, but for just an instant his hand clenched around a beaker. All the while, Michael kept smiling. 

Quickly, Raphael translated his worry into a glance out at the ward, then he went back to his measurements. “Actually,” he said, and waited. No accusation rose to fill the quiet. “It’s about my proposal.”

“Which one?”

“I sent it to your desk three months ago.”

“Remind me _which_ desk.”

“Local management.”

“I’ve been on Earth so often these days, Here help me. I hope it hasn’t lost itself. Remind me…”

“A pre-corporeal safety seminar. Prevention and care, including first aid in the field. I’ve the materials gathered. It needs only your seal of approval and an attendance roster. The quartermasters could take care of the latter if we asked nicely.”

“Raphael, angels always ask nicely.” Michael looked apologetic. “Is there anything I can do for you right now?”

“Yes. Stop combat training.”

Michael’s thin eyebrows rose half an inch. 

“Please,” Raphael added levelly.

“Just like that?” Michael asked, his smile straightening into the beginning of a frown. A few nearby doctors and patients glanced towards the lab worriedly. 

“Absolutely,” said Raphael. “Michael, look at this ward: Lacerations, contusions, fractures, not to mention hernias…” He shook his head. “This is no way to prepare angels for combat.”

“You being the expert on combat preparation?”

“I don’t need to be, your grace. Being chosen by G-d to tend Her wounded and heal Her sick is enough. Injuring half our force and exhausting our healers before the fighting even starts is no way to enter a battle we hope to win.”

“Oh.” It was a very quiet reply, but Michael’s eyebrows did not come down and his smile didn’t return. 

“And if these guardians are going into battle, I expect AR is up to its primaries in paperwork getting those limitations to guardian miracle quotas removed.”

“You think so?”

“Aren’t they?”

“It isn’t necessary yet, Raphael.”

“Given those limitations on miracles are leaving us splinting bones on one side of the ward and administering laxatives on the other, allow me to offer my expert opinion to respectfully disagree, my prince.”

“Raphael…” Michael seemed to be biting his tongue. 

“They are missing training all this time,” Raphael added.

Michael drew a deep breath and slowly— _slowly_ —turned back on his smile. He said, “I count on you to understand your own field better than mine, Raphael. You do make a point.”

“I hope so, your highness.’

“But I actually do have a question about the overdue books—on behalf of Uriel.”

Again, Raphael checked the ward to mask his concern. A few lookers on, including a few of Myriad, quickly pretended they were too busy to eavesdrop. He asked, “Is everything alright?”

“She’s busy with the choirs today,” Michael said, “but since I was coming your way, she asked for your recommendation.”

Raphael relaxed a little. That was different. “For tomorrow?”

“For a clarion call, actually, a few months from now. Something to move the hearts of sinners the world over, at our first advance.”

Raphael’s light fluttered worriedly. “Fear is not really my art,” he admitted. He finished loading the centrifuge. “There are some excellent hymnals I could recommend. Anthems, marches, something you can bring the percussion into if thunder sets the mood…”

“We were thinking something _less_ traditional.”

“Just a moment: These are time-sensitive.”

“Of course.”

Raphael turned away to face the centrifuge and gave it all his attention. Rather than whirr unpleasantly, its rotations loosed strains into four-part harmonies. He watched with careful, deep breaths, keeping silent time. Being a doctor meant being very good at compartmentalizing, so while counting out measures, he most certainly was not thinking about his brother. Nor was he thinking of two books which were certainly not hymnals. 

The machine slowed and Michael’s smile hadn’t wavered. “You’re certainly dedicated to your work, Raphael,” he remarked.

“I delight in my Mother’s tasks for me.”

“Is the same true of Her other gifts?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Could you compose something original?”

“Such as?”

“A lure.”

Raphael’s mouth twitched downward. “A what?”

“Something compelling, pleasant, to bring the enemy out into the open.”

Raphael said, “Surely if these children of Belial are at their worst, they’ll readily accost the holy forces the moment we appear.”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”

Raphael lined the vials up on their stand. “Forgive me, my prince. But…”

“Yes?” Michael’s smile was still carefully fixed.

“Are you asking me to compose something… deceptive?”

“Angels aren’t deceitful, Raphael,” said Michael. “I promise, I will look for your proposal. There just hasn’t been time.”

“I didn’t mean to say that you—”

“And if you can’t help, at least return those books. There were appendices we can refer to.”

Raphael said, “I’m not sure I have them, my prince. The last manual I checked out from our library was about… damnation.”

“That’s exactly the one. Sefriel has your name on record. We would have used the older edition, but it seems to have gone missing as well.”

“That _is_ odd.” Raphael nodded. “I suppose I shall have to look harder.”

“It happens to all of us. Do take care of yourself.”

“G-d be with you, your grace.”

Michael hesitated in the doorway. Raphael held his breath, but then the prince let himself out without another word. 

* * *

**W** hile the tarts cooled, Aziraphale strolled back to Jasmine Cottage to meet Crowley and the Device-Pulsifers for tea.

Anathema sat at the dining table. She’d donned a pair of lint-free linen gloves and was handling the two books on damnation, page by page. By the extensive lists on the notepad to her right, it was clear she’d been doing so for some time. 

Meanwhile, Newt was rolling up his schematic. He jumped when he saw Aziraphale, tried to hide the entire length of paper behind his back, and said, “Aziraphale, it was not my fault!”

Aziraphale stopped and stared at the very visible paper. “Goodness me,” he gasped. 

It was dripping, not water, but _sparks_. Sparks of golden light like sleepy fireflies. Even as Aziraphale watched, they bounced off the table, and a twig sprouted from one of the knots in the woodwork. A small green leaf unfurled at its end. 

“What happened?” Aziraphale asked, as pleasantly as he could.

“I barely brushed it,” Newt explained. “But it sent half my pencil marks into three-dimensional letters of that.” He pointed to the books.

“It…. Oh.” Aziraphale considered the pages, then the picnic basket. “You touched it?’

“The paper did,” Anathema explained helpfully. 

“Oh my, and your very nice table…”

“Don’t worry, Aziraphale, it’s not the oddest thing to happen in this house. The letters did look like these though.”

She turned ahead a few pages and showed him something in the appendices—a song, written in the rings of an Enochian musical score. “Is it important?” she asked.

“Ah, the Hymn of Creation,” said Aziraphale with forced optimism. “Verse three, looks like. Quite a lovely tune.”

“I thought this one was really nice,” Anathema agreed, smiling as if a tree was not trying to grow out of her table. “There are plenty in here. Is this the _actual_ ‘music of the spheres’?”

“Oh, just a handy selection, thematically appropriate and the like.”

The back door opened again and Crowley strode through, Dog trotting at heel. They stopped in the kitchen and both the dog and the demon raised an eyebrow at the little green leaf.

“Someone’s trying to impress,” Crowley remarked.

* * *

**W** ithin a few moments, the paper was hanging very carefully out on the clothesline in the garden. The bits of gold and blue lettering dripped slowly from the face of it like a reverse water spill, leaving behind the boring but quite safe pencil markings of Newton’s work thus far. 

Wherever the drops landed on the lawn, small flowers sprang up, some species of which Crowley was quite certain had gone extinct centuries ago.

Dog had curled up on a well-used doggy bed Anathema kept on the back porch. He had, in his visits to Jasmine Cottage, seen stranger things, and rightfully believed the day’s work owed him a nap.

Crowley said, “You could go in for the Peace Prize, Newt.”

Newt adjusted his glasses. “Um, well, generally, Crowley, scientists disapprove when physicists can’t explain their conclusions.” 

“What would you even say was the hypothesis?” Anathema agreed. “That G-d plays dice with the Universe?”

“Ruled that one out awhile ago,” said Crowley. “Too simple for the good ol’ A-One.” His fingers were tapping the side of his jeans anxiously. 

“Any luck in the woods?” asked Newt, “finding out how the demons got in?”

“Yeah, plenty,” said Crowley, and glanced at Aziraphale.

“Well, I should like to see,” said the angel immediately.

“We could all—” Newt began, but while they were both retired professional descendants, Anathema’s ancestry had specialized in nuance far more than the former witch hunter. 

“We should water the dining table,” she interrupted, then smiled at Aziraphale. “We’ll see you at the Youngs' for supper.”

* * *

**A** dam had lived in Tadfield for fourteen years and had never visited the home of the Tylers.

R.P. Tyler’s wife, Donna, was a smiling, curvy woman clad in floral print. Her hair had gone white ten years ago, and it ringed her face brightly, almost like a halo. _[Author’s note:_ Almost _, Adam allowed, since he knew what a halo actually looked like.]_

She beamed when she saw them and accepted Schutzi across the threshold by way of a greeting, saying, “Reginald, back already?”

“Brought some assistants,” said R.P. Tyler; and because Donna smiled so brightly, Adam didn’t have the heart to argue. 

Back in their sixth year at primary school, Adam and The Them had made a long list of theoretical names for R.P. Tyler. They had never asked anyone which, if any, was correct. Now Adam was a little disappointed that his favorite guess, _Rex Pteranodon_ , had not come close. 

R.P. Tyler introduced them to Donna by their patronyms (but for Pepper, who was “Grace’s eldest”) and had them in for tea in the parlor. A proliferation of lace held territory on every available surface there, but in a nice, comfortable way that made everything feel tidy.

Afterward, Donna sent them around to the back garden where “Reginald” had parked the bicycle. Facing the garden was what looked to be a very cluttered sun porch–turned–office. Adam stood on his toes to peer inside, and watched as the sole member of the Watch riffled through file boxes. R.P. Tyler soon came back with a fistful of pencils and four official looking clipboards. (They were color-coded.) On each board was exactly one page of paper. Each was different, but they all had the sort with blurred black lettering that suggests a copies made from copies _ad nauseam_ to save on printing costs. 

“Recordkeeping,” he explained, handing The Them a board and pencil each. “It’s one of the most important duties of the Watch. If we don’t write it down, how do we know it happened?”

“But, Mr. Tyler, you’re the only one on the Neighborhood Watch,” Pepper pointed out warily. “Don’t you remember everything?”

R.P. Tyler was oddly pleased by the question. “Well, young lady, we can’t all be sharp as a whip in our old age. Besides, there’s the succession to think of,” he went on. (The Them couldn’t quite understand why he said this so happily.) “Daily reports, weekly reports, monthly, yearly, and supplemental. And, of course, lost and found protocols.”

Adam was certain (or at least he wanted to be certain) that his godfather had not sent him and his friends with R.P. Tyler to do paperwork. Even so, it felt odd to say no. He had never seen R.P. Tyler so cheerful. Adam glanced at the rest of The Them and they all returned the same, puzzled stare: Doing anything but what had been asked of them when someone smiled like _that_ felt as atrocious as running over a fluffy kitten on purpose.

And so, under R.P. Tyler’s careful instruction, The Them completed the following items in triplicate: A _Found Item_ form (RFI-3), a _Report of of Suspicious Persons_ form (R-SP2), a _Damages to a Velocipede_ form (DV-4b), and a cover sheet (FCS-Revision 7) with which to fax copies of the other three to the London Police Department. _[Author’s note: The numeration of these forms was a system entirely of R.P. Tyler’s making; he kept an index.]_

“London?” Pepper echoed incredulously.

“The plates say London,” R.P. Tyler explained. “Best to see if anyone’s reported it missing. If they saw anything suspicious, those criminals will have nowhere to run.”

Adam exchanged a look with his friends that forged the instant agreement that no one would tell R.P. Tyler he was wrong.

“Wouldn’t it be faster to send email?” Adam asked. 

“Nah,” said R.P. Tyler and waved his hand. He set the bicycle in the lee of the garden shed and Adam helped him with a tarp. “Email gets lost at the bottom of an inbox somewhere. Hundreds if not thousands of emails swamp Police Departments and civil offices everyday. It’s the faxes they remember, young Adam. Always stands out, a fax.”

“Because it’s old?”

“Because it’s _different_. It’s all about knowing how people think. It’s pa… p...si… it’s a science to do with what’s going on in people’s heads.”

“Headology,” Adam provided.

“Headology,” R.P. Tyler repeated. “That’s what it is. See, it takes more time and effort to send a fax, so it seems more important to everyone else. _Seeming_ important makes it important. You have to think smart. Doesn’t that tutor from America teach you anything?”

_[Author’s note: Because true witchcraft is about as misunderstood as chaos, Adam had decided it was best to introduce Anathema as his American tutor. That way, if anything odd slipped out in conversation, fellow Tadfield residents would dismiss it as something to do with “those crazy Americans,” and they would get to feel very cultured about themselves for not understanding one bit of it.]_

Adam thought of Anathema’s banishment of Lord Beelzebub. “Oh, she does,” he said. “That’s brilliant, Mr. Tyler.” 

He felt odd saying it, but that didn’t stop the fact that it was true. 

* * *

**C** halk was no rarity in Hogback Wood so Crowley and Aziraphale sought out a small clearing where its calcite shone the whitest. Their logic was that if the Stone liked to help life along, it would be safest sitting on something that had long ago given up on the idea. 

They also brought an umbrella. It wasn’t for them. 

Crowley carefully placed the basket at the center of the open space and, by aid of the checkered cloth, the angel and the demon both moved the Stone from its hideaway and placed it gently on the ground.

Aziraphale glanced up warily at the overcast sky. “You don’t supposed they’re watching.”

“That’s the thing, I don’t think they can,” said Crowley. “Not clearly. After Beelzebub and Dagon’s attempt, I think we can safely say Adam’s got a bit of ‘principality’ from _your_ side of the family.”

“But we’re only his godparents.”

“And Adam loves all those stories with godmothers in.”

“But all those are…” Aziraphale broke off, then reconsidered. “Oh. Oh my.”

“It’s not a bad thing angel, not a bad thing at all.”

They both looked down at the Stone, which gleamed so innocently the hair on the back of Aziraphale’s neck stood on end. Even a newborn angel couldn’t be that innocent. It was unsettling.

“I feel like we’re being stared at,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve been reading about it all week, and nothing says you feel like being stared at.”

“Probably not something people like to think about.” Crowley dug into his pocket and produced the scale. It shone like an opal. “This ought to be safe enough.”

“What is that?”

“One of Dagon’s scales. Detached and dead, of course. Should be harmless.”

“Instead of what?”

“You mentioned that reset…”

“Surely you don’t mean to…”

“Nah, wouldn’t dream of it,” said Crowley. “Newt was thinking of a map the universe and he got one.”

“As music?”

“Yes, but Anathema was right there, and she was reading music. It’s all reaction to some kind of wish or need or some such. But it wore off. Knowledge and immortality, isn’t that what all the books say?”

“Generally,” Aziraphale admitted reluctantly. “Creation, vision, and restoration. A sort of cornucopia of harmony.”

“So I’m thinking we _wish_ for something like a scanner. Something to ‘read’ this. It’s a _Philosopher’s_ Stone. It knows things.”

“I suppose that would be the least harm if it does anything,” Aziraphale agreed. 

“Right then.”

Crowley shooed Aziraphale back and they took the basket and umbrella with them. They spent the next thirty minutes picking up sticks and binding them into a sort of pincher with two fingers at the end. Crowley insisted on doing this all by hand, lest they add more supernatural matter into the mix.

“Since we’re all about scientific method today,” he added, and passed the time narrating some recent appealing antics of The Them for Aziraphale’s entertainment.

“Politics” the angel chuckled. “My, they grow up so fast.”

Soon enough they had a tool long enough to reach from the edge of the clearing to the center. Crowley fixed the scale between the twigs at its end, and together, they fed the line until it hovered just over the box.

“On three?” Crowley suggested, wriggling his finger along the lower bit, which had a kind of trigger. “Counting up or down?”

“Let’s say down.”

“Right-o. Three… two… one.” Crowley pulled the trigger and one twig retracted, dropping the scale on top of the box.

Nothing happened.

“Perhaps it only reacts to the living.”

“It reacted to Newt’s paper well enough.”

“He was touching it.”

Crowley and Aziraphale stared at the Stone for a long time, then they looked at each other.

“Perhaps I ought to…,” Aziraphale suggested. 

“Angel…”

“I won’t lay a finger on it.” Aziraphale stood and straightened his jacket. “No, no, you stay there.”

He plucked up a loose twig, then counted aloud for ten paces forward. In a way, he felt like he’d entered a very peculiar duel. Stopping a few inches away from the Stone, he reached down and tapped the scale with the stick to flick it to the ground. He picked it up. There seemed nothing different about it.

Facing the Stone again, he drew a deep breath. “I think I shall imagine there’s a book on demons and that I need a page of it,” he told Crowley. The demon was sitting on his heels, watching like a crouched cat ready to spring. He nodded stiffly with a wordless noise like, “Nrk.”

Aziraphale tapped the scale on the box.

A lot of nothing happened this time.

Aziraphale sighed, relieved, and Crowley stood up to join him. 

“Was worth a shot, I suppose,” Crowley said. He took the scale and walked it across his knuckles, then had a thought. “You know who might know? All about the ‘magicks,’ more even than Anathema…”

For a moment, Aziraphale tried to recall, and then he grimaced. “Oh, I don’t like him.”

“No one does,” said Crowley. “Last resort stuff him. But even Ol’ Horns never got his goat.”

“I think it would be best we not involve any more of our own in this.”

“Yeah, a’right. Though he’s rather our _dis_ owned, isn’t he?”

Aziraphale made sure to look very disapproving of this pun as he crossed the chalky ground back towards the basket. 

“You know, he _does_ have a library,” added Crowley. “Including the first edition series of the _Enuma Elish_. You were looking for that, weren’t you?”

“You can’t bribe me, Crowley. We’ll just have to figure this out on our own.” Aziraphale picked up the basket and lifted its lid. “Prince Michael clearly expected the demons to do something with the Stone.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale fished out the checkered cloth. “Perhaps… perhaps something angels can’t do. We’ll just have to try something else.”

Aziraphale missed the look that suddenly crossed Crowley’s face. 

Crowley wasn’t a compulsive demon, but when he fixated on an idea he did tend to pursue it to the detriment of anything else (and occasionally himself). It was a drive that had made him good at his job. Now his job was to find out how to stop this thing from destroying the Universe, and so, stooping quickly, he set the scale on the Stone again, feeling a great more expectation than he thought he should. And _this_ time he kept his finger on it, just for a moment. 

A shaft of light shot up like a needle from the top of the box to the top of the trees. It stopped like a taunt string and fizzled like an electric needle. The line stretched. It frayed like a worn violin’s bow. Then, with a crackle, the strands wrapped around one another and Crowley found he was looking at a shape.

Just as Aziraphale had suggested, the image looked like the sketch on a page, only that page was like glass, and the sketch was cut with sapphire lightning. 

“That can’t be right,” said Crolwey.

It was an angel.

A Watcher, with wings bright as moonstones. The wings were so long and graceful they curled like double wheels around their owner. 

“Dagnophon,” Aziraphale gasped, and he cupped a hand to his mouth, surprised at himself. He walked forward, the basket forgotten. “I didn’t realize… I mean… We don’t really ask who was who…”

Crowley frowned. “But this can be right, angel. He looks different than I recall. Bit older. Not sure what it is.”

“Could it be… what he _would have_ looked like?”

“I never thought the Almighty one for the _subjunctive_ mood.”

“You were thinking of Dagon then?” asked Aziraphale.

“I wasn’t thinking of Dagnophone.”

“But that’s not a restorative property. Not a reset.”

“No.”

“What is it then?”

“No clue. Perhaps Anathema will know.” 

Crowley reached down and plucked up the scale. Suddenly he felt the earth move, and not in a fun way. 

He was only vaguely aware that his body flew backwards, because the rest felt caught, well, not upwards, but in a direction so foreign it could only be described by the finite mind as _up_ . And then he was standing in an instant—in an _eternal_ instant. An instant complete with its own three dimensions or more to move through despite the lack of Time. All around him was a space as blank as a primed canvas. It was empty and cold, a Void.

Time _was_ there, though it was small, local. It was a particle and a wave, and if he wanted to, he could pluck the whole of it up, roll it tight like a glass marble, and see it in its entirety. He didn’t though, and yet he knew he could. He didn’t, because it wasn’t the most immediate thing. 

The most immediate thing was that Crowley _was_ a living flame. Fire was inside of him and around him. It _was_ him—His hair, his skin, even his eyes were fires dancing in harmonious union. He was fire within fire and wearing fire. Crowley felt the fullness of stars in his eyes, felt gravity move like clay between his fingers. He wasn’t a body, but a _being_. He felt old and awake and he knew too much… 

Then the Void asked, _“Zaziel?”_ and it was like a spear rushing towards him. 

“No!” Crowley shouted, and the canvas went black.

He opened his eyes, not thinking he’d closed them. He was lying on his back on the wet chalk ground which smelled salty and damp. The sky had clouded overhead completely. Gray rain fell. Crowley’s throat was raw and he ached. And all his aches were very much flesh and blood and bone.

“Anthony!”

Aziraphale’s face appeared over him, then his stork white wings, holding back the downpour.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley gasped.

“Anthony, are you alright?”

Crowley looked quickly down at himself. Still in black. In flesh, too, after a fashion. Wet and weary flesh, and immortal only in the ways he was comfortable with. Crowley felt at his face, his chest, his hair…

All in one piece. 

All in the _right_ piece. 

Crowley shuddered and stared across the clearing at the Stone. Aziraphale had propped the umbrella over it, so that it sat on a dry patch, lest it do something undesirable to the rain. Above it, the sapphire image was gone but the artefact still gleamed a little. Crowley had the very strong impression it was doing whatever multidimensional artefacts did instead of innocently whistling after causing trouble.

“I’m alright,” he muttered. He pushed his hand around until he found the scale. It hadn’t changed, but like the rest of him it was scuffed with raw chalk. He stuffed it away into his pocket, and tried to stand. The world reeled a little. He caught Aziraphale’s hand and sat again. “What happened?”

“There was, um, there was a kind of light. Shot out in all directions, and…” 

“What is it, angel?”

“Well, just for a moment, and I don’t want you to be upset, only, it’s just… You looked like your brother.”

The words fell like the most careful strokes of a pen. Crowley heard each one, heard how the words fell into line, heard how they didn’t fall another way, how they didn’t say, _You looked like how you used to look_. But he knew. He knew. 

Crowley shuddered, raked a hand through his chaos hair, and then glared at the Stone, never for an instant buying its blameless facade. He said, “Angel, we can’t use that thing.”

“I won’t argue with you on that, my dear.”

“But we cannot let Satan touch it either.”

“He has something to do with this?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“But what happened?”

“I felt… powerful.” Crowley swallowed hard. That word wasn’t quite right, but even Enochian was missing the synthetic language function that would let an angel say “I” and _that word_ in the same sentence. Try it, and you might break linguistics the world over. You might break the world. Crowley tried to explain: “I felt like I held the whole world in my hands, no… like I held the key to it, like it was inside… right at the heart of me. And I was more than myself, more than everything. And I could have made anything then, done anything, however I wanted. I just had to… No.”

“What, Anthony?”

Crowley didn’t miss how Aziraphale kept saying his name, the name he’d chosen. He felt grateful and tried to smile to show it. His mouth bent a bit crookedly, but he got the ends of it up alright. 

He explained, “I don’t think the archangels know what it’s capable of. There’s no way they’d trust anyone with that.”

“It seems dangerous.”

“More than holy water. More than a wish machine. If they wanted the world to end, they could end it, not just end it, _change_ it, make it like… like it never was. If they paid the price…”

“What price?”

Crowley swiped at his eyes, at his face, until Aziraphale passed him a pocket handkerchief. It was nearly as damp as everything else, but a radiating heat from Aziraphale’s wings was gradually warming them dry. Crowley nodded to a place across the clearing and they sat out of the rain to talk awhile.

* * *

**P** erhaps no laws in particle physics have gained the notoriety or misrepresentation that chaos has. For example, Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle states that a particle in motion moves too fast for anyone to measure two of its properties at once. By that principle, it is impossible to know everything about any one electron at the same time. 

The very concept is profoundly philosophical, and could feed a millennium’s worth of discussions on fate and faith and the paradox of an unknowable G-d Who wishes to be known. It is at least as philosophical as the idea that a true G-d is one Who exists even when nobody believes in Her. 

And yet no one lies awake with uncertainty over Heisenberg. Chaos is far more compelling. Or, to put it another way, it’s compelling to think there might be a way to rise above chaos, to tame or even control it. One likes to imagine that chaos might be faced head on, fought, and defeated.

That there might be a way to end it. 

In the realm of philosophy then, chaos is the only force of nature that one must believe in in order for it to (eventually) _not_ exist. Philosophically, one could say that chaos is G-d’s opposite. 

This is not correct.

But it is very close.

* * *

**T** he Stone sat alone, brooding like an abandoned pet resenting the rain. Crowley was trying not to look at it. Aziraphale waited with a patience that surpassed that of the most long-suffering saints. The sun sank westward, and now and then bars of gold escaped the clouds, leaving the whole of Hogback Wood a muddle of shadow and light.

Crowley murmured, “Angel, I don’t want to remember, you know. I try not to think of… _before_.” He waved his hand vaguely.

“I understand, my dear.’

Crowley pushed his fingers against his eyelids. The glare of the other Place beyond all places, of that Void where the worlds were puddy in his hands, was hovering around the edge of his thoughts like a nightmare, haunting but hard to remember. Crowley looked up at the rain, then let himself watch Aziraphale instead. 

“Angel, you believe me? You know, I didn’t mean to fall.”

“I do know.”

“But I don’t ever want to go back. I mean, I don’t want to be… what I was.”

“Anthony J. Crowley, why would I ever ask you to be?”

Crowley felt a knot in his chest unwind. He hadn’t been looking for assurance, but he’d needed it just the same. “But you know, I’m not nice.”

“I can be perfectly terrible myself if I so choose.”

“Angel, She made Leviathan…”

“I know, dear.”

“And we killed it.”

“Yes.”

“She made it so we could _kill_ it.”

Aziraphale drew a shaking breath and held it. “Now, Crowley, don’t—”

“She made me so I would fall.”

Aziraphale made a noise like a wound. “No.”

Crowley barreled on, “So you see, it doesn’t matter what I _mean_ to. Never has.”

“Crowley…”

“But, I, I mean to stay this way. She could tell me to come back tomorrow, and I wouldn’t, angel.”

“ _Crowley_ …”

“I can’t trust Her. I’m here, and I know what I am, and I won’t become a stranger just so She’ll love me, if that’s what She meant all along. She’ll have to love me like this or not at all. But She won’t love me like this.”

“My dear…”

“And all that means is that She couldn’t possibly… I mean, She knows all this already, so it means that She never… that she didn’t… but I thought She… She let me think that…” 

He bit down on the rest and buried his face in Aziraphale’s lap.

“Why?”

Aziraphale lay one hand on his shoulder. He swiped quickly at his own eyes, then brushed his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

For a long time the sobs bled with the rain. 

At last Aziraphale said softly, “I don’t know, dearest. I really don’t. But I do think I love nothing more in the world than you.”

“Love you too, angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile lit the undersides of his wings, and for a moment nothing could touch them in the world.

Crowley sighed roughly, “Should reassure, if it’s all decided, but it doesn’t. Even if I could ever do better, would be only by learning from Her mistakes. You see? It all winds back ’round to Her.”

Aziraphale squared his shoulders a little. “Well, it could go another way. If She sent me on apple duty so we’d meet, what then? Crowley, I don’t know, and I don’t care. Nobody told me to love you, but I do. I’ve chosen you, and I would choose you again.”

“Like maybe it’s all for good?”

“Does love have to be _for_ something?” asked Aziraphale. “With all its shapes and sizes, does it have to be nailed down?”

Crowley drew a few deep breaths. He stared across the chalk at the Stone under the umbrella. There it sat, so certain of itself. More certain than anything short of a certain, so-called “I AM”. 

“That’s the worse part, angel,” Crowley sighed. “There’s still a part of me that wishes She loved me, so, if there were a reason…”

“A meaning?”

“But then… then it all starts ’round again.”

“I can only try to imagine.”

“Best not. I know, angel, I _know_ it’s too high a price to use that Stone. Aziraphale, what I saw just then, what you saw, and what I heard…”

“What was it?”

“Angel, I heard my _name_.”

Aziraphale’s breath caught, and his fingers stalled, for just a moment. Then he rallied: “I was calling you enough, _Anthony_ ,” he said.

Crowley tried to smile, couldn’t. “My other name,” he said. “The one I lost, like Dagon did. I heard my first name. And I didn’t just hear it. I _knew_ it, the way I used to, just for a moment…”

“Heavens.”

“And it felt like… It felt like all I had to do was answer, and it would’ve been mine again for real.”

“And then?”

“Don’t know I could have remembered why I bothered then.”

“Like a reset?”

“That’s the price. Think the demons know?”

“No.” Aziraphale worriedly watched the rain, his fingers still in his demon’s hair. “No, but I think perhaps you’re right. About him, I mean, the devil. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were pulling strings. He does so like to abuse ignorance.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me either, but we need someone neutral to figure this out. How to hide this thing, or disarm it even. It’s too dangerous.”

They sat until the rain turned to a drizzle. At last, Aziraphale grimaced again. He bit his lip and his eyes glinted to gold. He was steeling his nerve. 

He said, “I suppose we do need a neutral party…”

“We couldn’t possibly take Adam.”

“He’ll be safe enough at the bookshop.”

They packed away the Stone, then the umbrella, then took a trail that ran toward the orchards. Eventually, Crowley switched the basket to his outside hand and wrapped his other in Aziraphale’s. 

“You’re not worried our dearly disowned is still angry at you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ve never met. Not officially.”

“Funny thing, but I think my brother knew him.”

“Is that a good thing? I mean, if we need to ingratiate ourselves…”

Crowley smiled for the first time since the rain had started. “But I’m sure he’s forgotten all about that time.”

“No reason to hold a grudge, can’t imagine.”

“Not at all.”

“I merely _borrowed_ that scroll.”

“Without asking permission. Indefinitely.”

“In the name of preservation and research.”

“You going to tell him that if he asks?”

“I’ve nothing to hide,” said Aziraphale primly, turning up his chin. “But, well, neither do you, my dear.”

“I don’t, do I?”

“And someone has to look after Adam.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea that Myriad is the angelic form of Legion, since both refer to a force of ten thousand. My hc’s incomplete on whether they're siblings or not.


	12. Chapter the Twelfth – Blind Man's Bluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It’s alright, Adam, I have a plan,” said Crowley._  
>  “We have a plan,” Aziraphale corrected.  
> “There is a plan,” Crowley amended, and grinned.

**_S_ ** _omewhere in Oxfordshire is a study with two doors. One opens into a library, the other is an Exit. Like a handful of other Exits in the library, now and then, the “X” flashes off. At these times, the sign reads “E’IT.” Eventually the letter flickers back on._

_An oak desk in that study has been piled with books since yesterday. Not that it isn’t usually piled with books. But these are different books. With them is a growing pile of loose paper, hand-ruled and numbered. It is scrawled with letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, and poems._

_Not in any human language._

* * *

**A** certain glacier ninety degrees north had held on for thousands of years. It was convinced, as much as glacial ice can feel convinced, that it wasn’t about to let go just because oil was big in the market these days. But around it other glaciers were falling. Even with the heavy snowfall to wash out the view, the crack and groan of ancient things broken could not be ignored. 

Contrary to the ponderous old ice mountain, the young storm over the arctic was intent, as much as a storm can feel intention, on raising valleys to meet mountains. 

Michael wasn’t one to analyze his moods, but he’d come to watch the old ice and the young snow paint the world white. It was assuring somehow. The cold never bothered him. When you were caretaker of something, it generally took a step back for your sake.

The storm passed eventually, leaving a shell of perfect white over the world. A few soft flakes continued to fall, and Michael tucked himself into a snow drift and tried to sleep.

Three years ago, when he had slept more soundly, the Prince of Heaven had often dreamt of the Fall, of the rightness of lightning on his sword. Despite its horror, there was nothing yet so transcendental as the release of uncertainty, when everything unsure falls into the void. Some people will do anything for certainty. It’s a feeling so easy to mistake for peace.

But lately, Michael’s dreams had become far from either. The battle still played out, but the roles were reversed. It was Lucifer ablaze in righteous fury. It was Lucifer who caught lightning on a silver blade. And it was Lucifer, Son of the Morning, who wore the seven-star crown of Virtue and shattered the golden paving stones to watch his brother fall. 

In the quiet, Michael woke with a start and drew his sword from the ether. His wings arched in defense, and then spasmed again. He dropped the sword and hit his knees. Fortunately, he wasn’t surrounded by demons or even angels. It was just a dream.

It was always _just_ a dream. But always the _same_ dream. That had to mean _something_. 

Michael didn’t pray. If you asked for help, he told himself, you were failing. Angels were supposed to be perfect. 

Sinking back down onto the snow, Michael sent his sword away and buried his face in his hands, trying to push back the ache in his wings that said he needed more rest to heal. Sleep was clearly done for the day. 

Humans didn’t only talk about skinning cats. They had many clever sayings. A stitch in time, for example. A bird in the hand. And the one about the futility of chasing two rabbits… 

They also knew what desperate times called for.

Humans like to say that no two snowflakes are alike. They say this as if someone has sat down and catalogued them. Angels have found no conclusive evidence of these catalogers. But sometimes humans get Heaven right by accidents. When two snowflakes with equal dimensions and matching fractals drifted across Michael’s field of vision, he smiled less cynically, because it was a joke.

“You should be resting, Gabriel.”

Gabriel crossed the snow drift on bare feet. “Raphael said if I slept any more, he’d report me for Sloth.” 

“Are you guilty?”

“No, but I’m good as new.” He rolled out his shoulder to prove it. 

“That is good.”

Gabriel sat down. “Actually, I thought we were meeting today.”

“I must have lost track of time.” Michael felt his face flush red. He started to stand, but Gabriel touched his arm and smiled. 

“We’ve a little while yet.”

“I missed morning training. How did it go?” 

“Well. They’ll be ready for the test run in a few days.”

Michael looked up at the stars, then sighed and sat down again. He asked, “How did you know where to find me?”

“Well, the three of us thought about where we’d take a nap if it wasn’t in the aerie, and I had a hunch it would be one of two places. Down here.”

Michael grimaced. Gabriel wasn’t always the fastest hand on the clock, but no one could best his second for strategy. 

“Speaking of Raphael,” Gabriel added, “Uriel said you two had a spat?”

“He’s being difficult.”

“Not compared to some.”

They watched the snow for a moment, flakes catching on their wings. At last, Gabriel tapped a finger on his knee. “You’re worried.”

“A little.”

“Are you thinking about _him_?”

“No.”

Gabriel tapped the finger again. Then Michael sighed roughly.

“Well, I am now,” he said, then insisted, “He doesn’t bother me.”

“Something does.” Gabriel crossed his hands around his knees. “It’s not just today. Something’s been bothering you for awhile now.”

“I’m the Prince of Heaven. It’s my job to be bothered.”

“But you’re not sleeping. Not well.”

“I’ll rest once it’s over.”

“It’s just…” 

For a moment, Michael imagined Gabriel looked nervous, but that never happened. 

“It’s just, I know I’m not as strong as you, Michael. But whatever battles we’ve fought, whatever foes we’ve faced…, we’ve always been stronger together.”

“I know.”

“You know I’d do anything but fall for you.”

Somewhere south (everywhere was south), near enough to sound like thunder, a less ponderous glacier cracked, then collapsed into the sea. Michael shut his eyes until the thunder of it passed.

“Thank you,” Michael said. “But it’s nothing, really.”

Gabriel forced a smile. They watched the scenery a bit longer, then he said, “You know, I’ll miss snow.”

“It is almost as nice as water,” Michael agreed.

“It’s nicer,” Gabriel insisted, and scooped up a handful of the freshly fallen stuff. 

“Not really,” Michael said.

“No?” Gabriel started pinching bits of the sticky stuff out of his palm, and popping it into his mouth like chips. “It’s like water you can chew. It’s still so clean this far north. It’s refreshing. Humans do all kinds of things with it. Some are downright ridiculous.” He took another bite, waited until Michael couldn’t help but smile, then flopped onto his back.

“What are you doing?” asked Michael.

Gabriel grinned. “Snow angel.”

“ _Snow_ angel?”

“Humans call it that. They flap their arms to make wings—the children, that is—like this.”

Michael cleared his throat and tried to look serious. “And _when_ did you figure that out?”

“I saw them a few years ago.” 

Gabriel tugged Michael’s sleeve and the other angel fell back obligingly, but not without saying, “This _is_ ridiculous. Why are we doing it?”

“Because ridiculous also means fun. Aren’t you going to miss that?” Gabriel laughed. 

“I do already.” 

“Not on my watch. I know all the games.”

Michael stared up at the snow-veiled sky. The coolness of the ground seeping into his wings surprised him. It felt like healing. There were so few truly clean places left in the world. Fewer holy ones. He shut his eyes.

“Will you miss children?” he asked.

“Yes.” Gabriel reached across and took his hand and Michael let him. “They’ll be okay, won’t they, wherever they go?”

“Of course.”

“I mean, I’d hate to think they’d be scared.”

“It was always going to happen.” Michael shivered, but he was suddenly thinking about a fever and about a very small bed. “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Sorry,” said Gabriel, reading something on his friend’s face. “I can stop talking.”

Michael held Gabriel’s hand tighter and nodded. 

_I wish we could fall asleep here_ , he thought _. The snow would keep falling. We could be buried in the cold._

But what if he dreamed again?

Michael sat up with a deep breath and pushed sleep into the shadows—just as a red band of light fluttered across the sky. 

“Michael, are you okay?” said Gabriel.

“Uriel’s here,” Michael said, standing quickly. The shimmering feather-band of the aurora descended and Uriel appeared, standing light as the wind on the snow. Sandalphon landed next in a shaft of lightning. He was carrying his briefcase and looking very pleased with himself.

“Looks like you found him,” said Sandalphon happily. “We thought you might.”

“Nearly an hour before the meeting even,” said Gabriel. He gave Sandalphon a look the same temperature as a glacier. His friend shrugged apologetically. 

“There’s a saying about early birds,” said Michael, fixing his hair. “And we’ve a worm to catch.”

* * *

**_A_ ** _few books go back on the study shelf. A few others are taken down. The piles on the desk have changed with the hours, but they are still piles, a little city-skyline shape of research._

_The “X” in the Exit sign flickers out again, and the door opens and closes. The denizen of the study is off again: A dry wind catches his hat and coat as he leaves. Sand, white and oddly hot for this time of year in Oxfordshire, trails in across the carpet on a rasping wind._

_The door shuts and the room goes quiet._

* * *

**I** t was Sunday morning. The gramophone was playing Haydn’s Symphony No. 101 in D Major as Aziraphale entered the bookshop from its back room. He shelved a few novels he’d brought upstairs the night before, then strode to the door. He slipped a finger between its window and the window shade and peered through the crack, to check the street. 

He pulled the finger free almost immediately. The shade swung back in place. 

Aziraphale adjusted his tie and swallowed once. Then he turned on his heel and strode to the back room of the shop. Aziraphale met Crowley taking the last of the steps with a leap. They caught arms, eyes wide. Crowley hadn’t stopped to put on his sunglasses.

“Angel, out the window, I just saw—”

“Crowley, it’s—”

Each cleared his throat, then Aziraphale drew a deep breath.

“He must have only just arrived.”

“Who did?” There were lighter steps, then Adam arrived. 

“A very good question,” said Aziraphale. 

“It’s alright, Adam, I have a plan,” said Crowley.

“We have a plan,” Aziraphale corrected.

“There is a plan,” Crowley finished, and grinned. 

* * *

**_T_ ** _he library’s occupant has returned. Rough clay tablets, so old they look like stones, are lined up along the length of a book. It is a book of photographs. The photographs look like broken versions of the tablets, which is odd, because usually archaeology works the other way around._

_He hangs up his hat and coat. He picks up his pen, and makes another note._

* * *

**A** cross the street from a bookshop in Soho, stood the Archangel Michael, the only body not rushing somewhere besides where he stood. Had he been wearing a different face, Aziraphale still would have known him. There was that military posture, of course. And there was that smile, steel-hard despite its soft pink curves.

Michael was eyeing the Bentley distrustfully. The Bentley was, as much as a supernaturally restored automobile can manage, returning the favor. 

“Is he alone?” Crowley whispered over Aziraphale’s shoulder

“Only ostensibly, my dear.” Aziraphale once again stood at the door, the shade just a hair to one side.

“Does he know about the back door?”

“I never bothered to mention.”

“We have a back door?” asked Adam.

“We never bothered to mention,” admitted Crowley.

“For emergencies,” said Aziraphale. “It shares an alley with the, oh…” He broke off because the back of his mind had done some hasty arithmetic about Adam’s age in relation to the shop next door. He finished quickly by saying, “a neighbor” 

“Then the archangels certainly won’t know about it,” Crowley concluded, smiling innocently. Crowley was also good at math.

The demon plucked the spare key from its hook. “Adam?”

“Can’t I see you two fight?” Adam asked Aziraphale.

“It’s not so interesting as it sounds,” said Aziraphale, clamping down hard on the alarm this question raised. “Crowley, you won’t forget—”

“Course not, angel.” Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s hand and picked up the rucksack behind the till. “Number’s in the rolodex. Do scare the Hell out him, angel. He could use it.”

“Glady.” Aziraphale plucked his jacket off the coat rack and drew it on. He straightened the lapels and brushed the sleeves. Once he’d turned his back on Adam and Crowley, he put away his pleasant smile. 

Odds were, Michael hadn’t come alone.

Aziraphale stepped out and locked up behind him. Just to slow things down, he looked both ways before crossing the street and, when the coast was clear, strolled leisurely to the opposite pavement. When he stepped up onto the curb, Michael stepped backward. 

“Good morning, your grace,” said Aziraphale.

“Is it, Aziraphale?” 

“As the young people are saying, where is your posse?”

“I’ve come to talk.”

“Surely a talk is better with friends. The more the merrier.”

“It’s just the two of us here, Aziraphale, and we’re barely associates.”

“Well then, I know a nice cafe where we might have a spot of tea to catch up.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“You’re in Soho, Lord Michael. That is how things are done here.”

Aziraphale walked off without looking back. 

* * *

**_T_ ** _he study in Oxfordshire is dark. A slide projector is plugged in now. An older model with a wheel and plastic slides. Its shutter is a noisome thing._

Click-clack. 

_The projections are all aged to sepia tones. This one’s a tell in Mesopotamia._

Click-clack.

_This, a ruin in Alexandria._

Click-clack.

_And here’s Paniel Falls in Syria, before the war._

_In the hazy shadows that occupy the rest of the room, the denizen glances between screen and stone and book. He alternates one hand between projector switch and fountain pen._

Click-clack.

_Here is a circle squared._

_Another note is made._

_He does not speak or sigh or groan. Unlike the projector, he is not one to make a lot of noise. Now and then he traces a shape across his palm with one finger, the way a pianist recalls a tune by playing it._

* * *

**C** rowley locked the back door, drew every curtain, and then climbed with Adam up to the roof. There they could get a good view of the street.

“Isn’t Michael the one who threw down Lucifer?” Adam asked. 

Crowley leaned over a low wall to take in the alleyways. Adam followed suit. Then they checked the avenue. 

“Wasn’t so easy as that,” he said.

“What happened?”

“Michael drew his sword. Then Lucifer. And then, Heaven…” Crowley waved his hands explosively. “Well, it all shattered like an egg.”

“So, is it Michael’s fault you fell?”

Crowley shrugged out his shoulders with a twitch. “Don’t see it that way. In those days, archangels went behind the Veil. Plenty of time to get advice about managerial conflicts, no reason to question orders…” He crouched on his heels and watched Aziraphale stride off down the street, a perturbed Michael following. “Now we’ll see.”

“See what?” asked Adam.

“What this diversion is for.”

* * *

**T** he cafe wasn’t far. In fact, it was one shop over from where, just before Armaggeddon, a more nervous Aziraphale had been cornered by three archangels and subsequently punched hard in the stomach for being, in their words, “a bit of a fallen angel.” Aziraphale stuck up his chin without casting it a glance. 

Michael did.

As Azriraphale stepped up onto the cafe patio, he raised a finger for tea. He took a seat as the barista prepared his usual. 

A moment later, Michael sat in the chair across from him. “That was very rude, Aziraphale.”

“Not at all. This is my treat, since you’re my guest. You take your milk on the side?”

“Yes. No. Actually, I’ve switched to coffee these days.”

“Ah. I thought you looked tired.” Aziraphale smiled and made another gesture towards the bar.

Michael said, “You certainly know your way around humans.”

“Rather, I know my way _among_ them.” Aziraphale sat back, his fingers laced across his stomach. When Michael didn’t answer, Aziraphale let himself frown. “You used to come and go quite a bit back in the day. How is Earth Observation? Isn’t it frightful, all these goings on?”

“I’m not here to catch up, Aziraphale.”

“Then what can I help you with?”

“You think I need your help?”

“You can’t possibly be here to make demands.”

* * *

**“T** here we go,” said Crowley.

A stern Uriel and grim Sandalphon were approaching the storefront and reading the hours hung in the door’s glass window.

“Is it open or isn’t it?” Uriel was asking, as she and Sandalphon tried to decipher the block of inked text.

Adam whispered, “Why are they waiting?”

“Angels are sticklers for rules even when they’re bending them,” Crowley explained. “The door’s locked, closed sign’s up. We have ’til one in the afternoon before they start to suspect we’re not coming.”

“Do they know we’re here?”

“They know the car. Likely, they think the Philosopher’s Stone goes where I go.” Crowley ran a hand along one strap of the rucksack. “Odd they can’t feel it. You’d think that’d be a thing they could feel. We can feel it…” 

“Maybe it’s a security system,” said Adam. “My father’s new smartphone locks with his fingerprint.”

“Handy that.” For Adam’s sake, Crowley grinned. “But let’s give them something else to worry about.”

* * *

**A** ziraphale’s reply left Michael speechless for a moment. The waitron brought their tea and coffee service and Aziraphale tended his beverage patiently. Michael didn’t touch the coffee.

“This is a courtesy call,” Michael said. “I’m here with a warning.” 

“How thoughtful.”

“It’s for your demon friend, Crowley.”

Aziraphale glanced around, but it was a literal miracle no one had overheard them so far. He said, “A message for Crowley? That sounds like something that would be Hell’s department. You haven’t been let go?”

“That _is_ his car outside your shop.”

“You mean he never left Hell a forwarding address?”

“This isn’t a game, Aziraphale.”

“Apparently it is,” said Aziraphale. “What’s the prize?”

“Hell wants him to return what he stole. He knows what it is, I’ll say no more about it.”

“I know enough, I think. I couldn’t help overhear Dagon and Beelzebub boast of your alliance the other day. Is that a new order from Heaven?”

“Heaven’s orders haven’t changed, but they’re no concern of yours.”

“Except they are, because you’re here,” Aziraphale said, and took another sip of tea. 

“I’m sure Crowley thinks his theft is very funny.”

“It’s not surprising that you don’t know him very well,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve heard nothing about a theft of any sort. And he tells me everything.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale felt the lie catch in his throat, but swallowed past it. “My apologies.”

Michael leaned forward on the table. “Aziraphale, do you realize how dangerous it is, what you’re doing right now?”

“The caffeine hardly gives me the jitters.”

“I mean here, _among_ the humans, defying me.”

* * *

**C** rowley eyed the avenue and then the Bentley at the curb. The signal at the nearest intersection was red. He smiled and held up a hand between himself and Adam. “How d’you think they fancy Westminster this morning?”

The light turned green.

Crowley snapped his fingers and the Bentley’s headlights flashed. Uriel and Sandalphon both stumbled back against the shop door as the horn blared. Next, the engine roared, the tires squealed, and the car took off down Shaftesbury Avenue towards the theater. 

Uriel and Sandalphon started running, until Uriel stopped Sandalphon and pointed skyward. 

Crowley and Adam dove for the ground as two bolts of lightning shot upward. The bright blue sky grayed immediately, masked with roiling thunderclouds. 

The Bentley sped on, and the storm gave chase.

* * *

**A** ziraphale rolled his eyes upward as thunder cracked across the sky. Michael folded his arms as china cups and saucers on every table rattled with the storm. 

The gray in the clouds was tinged a telltale red. Aziraphale searched for signs of sulfur.

“Oh, it’s not brimstone, Aziraphale,” said Michael calmly. “That’s for special occasions.”

Aziraphale set aside his tea and took up a napkin. He folded it over once, then again, as a way of calming himself. 

“Michael,” he said slowly, “you’re not implying that you would hurt innocent people to strongarm me, are you?”

“Are you implying that everyone here is innocent?” Michael countered. Only his eyes moved, pointing first one way, then another: “That woman, cheating on her husband, or that man there, a minister, selling stocks when he knows they’re about to fall. Not to mention all the little sins: The road rage, the envy, rebellion, and pride…”

“You know all that?” Aziraphale sat up straighter and made a show of looking around. “Amazing. You, an angel of mercy, keeping track of mortal sin.”

“It can’t be helped, Aziraphale. To know good is to know evil. There was only one Tree.”

“Yes, well, one would think you’d leave the accusations to your brother.”

“It’s observation. The world is wholly wicked. Evil is seeping into everything.”

Aziraphale was taken aback. The prince often came across as above the storm, but detached was never his style. There had always been, well, _conviction_ . Not about evil but about _good_.

“And yet,” said Azirzaphale carefully, testing these new waters, “the Almighty spared the world Armageddon. Her mercy is truly great and beyond our understanding.”

“My point is, Aziraphale, Crowley has nowhere to run.”

“He drives most places, to be honest,” said Aziraphale glibly. 

“I know that too.”

* * *

**T** he Bentley’s wheels squealed as it turned south amid a cacophony of horns. From the air, Sandalphon let red fire dance on his fingertips. He carded lightning from the air and took aim with a bolt of it, then shot the missile towards the streets.

The Bentley’s clutch shifted, the gas pedal hit the floor, and a great number of pigeons took flight in fear of their lives. The bolt hit the center of an intersection—and nothing else as cars in all lanes slammed on their breaks to miss it. The drivers cursed the sky and the empty car, and the smoking pit that remained at the crossroad.

Its engine practically snarling, the Bentley whipped around a curve and onto a side street. 

Hovering gloriously in the sunshine above the storm, Uriel looked out over London though gaps in the cloud.

“I can’t see well enough. Can you thin it out a bit, Sandalphon?”

“In a moment, I think he’s heading to the Bridge.”

* * *

**_T_ ** _he lights in the study turn back on. A letter lies open on top of a filing cabinet. Like everything else in the room, the cabinet is made of polished wood. How this professor and researcher acquired nicer furniture than any other office in this place is up for debate among the staff. The prevailing theory is that it must be the benefit of tenure._

_No one can quite remember when he was hired._

_The envelope which had contained the letter lay off to one side. The addressee is_ Dr. Oswald A. Zealot _,_ ℅ OX1 3BG, Broad Street, Oxford _. A reply has already been sent._

_After the letter is considered, back on goes the hat and back on goes the coat. The “X” winks out again. This time frost and smog roll in at the scholar’s departure._

* * *

**I** n the lofted apartment of the bookshop, Crowley was holding a letter written on parchment. It had arrived in reply to one sent out on Saturday morning, which was exceptional, given the Post normally did not deliver on weekends. The letter had come to Aziraphale’s inbox sealed with wax, and been addressed to a _Mr. A.J. Crowley, ℅ Mr. A.Z. Fell,_ at _That Bookshop in Soho Which is Never Open_.

_[Author’s note: This was not true (as the notice in Chapter the Second will attest). Nevertheless, Aziraphale had been positively miffed that the Post had nevertheless known exactly the bookshop in question.]_

The letter was written in lettering that Adam couldn’t read, but there was a telephone number at the bottom. The number was also a recent addition in Aziraphale’s extensive Rolodex downstairs.

In his other hand, Crowley held his mobile. He was adding the number to his address book.

“Is Aziraphale going to be alright?” asked Adam.

“I’d be worried if it were Gabriel, but Michael’s always the careful one,” Crowley said. 

“Gabriel’s the one from the Airbase, right?”

“Yeah, angel of the north. Violet eyes. Smiles too much.” 

“So where’s he then?”

“Probably playing his horn.” Crowley set down the letter and said, “Stand close for this to work.”

“What is it?” Adam noticed that Crowley was making no move towards the door.

Crowley adjusted a few settings, then pulled a charge cord from behind the bed and plugged the phone in. “It’s a bit of a trick, but I’ve done it before. We’ll just leave this here.”

“Why would you leave your phone?” asked Adam, who for all his imagination couldn’t imagine doing such a thing willingly. “Uncle Crowley, you’re not making any sense.”

Crowley twitched up his sunglasses and grinned. “Oh, trust me, you’re going to like this. Take my hand.”

And somewhere in a place called Oxford, a telephone rang.

* * *

**A** ziraphale set aside his tea. This was passing strange. He knew Heaven wasn’t immune to hypocrisy or ignorance or pride. There had been a time when he’d turned a blind eye to these things, or even justified them, told himself he merely lacked faith. But in his quest to become more faithful, he’d realized most of the angels in Heaven were as ignorant of their vices as he had been. 

So Michael’s deliberateness was… unsettling. It was a feeling with claws. Aziraphale had an uncanny feeling that he was back in the Ninth Circle of Hell with the devil standing right by his shoulders.

Trying to keep his tone light, he asked, “Michael, this deal with the demons, what is it about? Has your brother come ’round?”

“The Adversary has nothing to do with this.”

“I assume you have Lord Beelzebub’s reassurance on that,” said Aziraphale. “Well, if the demons have broken their habit of lying after these six thousand years then praise the L-rd.”

“Now you’re being facetious.”

“I like to think I’m being the better angel.”

Michael laughed. “You?”

“It’s not hard to be better than this,” Aziraphale argued. “Of all the archangels, Michael, you’ve spent the most time on earth, and yet despite Armageddon clearly being off the table, you seem determined to bring life here to an end.”

“And you have spent more time on earth than any angel, and yet _you_ seem determined to defend their errant ways.”

“As you once did.”

“This is the end, Aziraphale. There’s no time left to be naive. You’ve been warned.” Michael stood up.

Aziraphale wasn’t ready to finish their talk, so he did not. “I beg your pardon, you think _you_ were naive?”

“What?”

“What you just said.” Aziraphale’s frown deepened. “When you reviewed my report from Sodom, you were aghast at the damages. Now you think saving lives is _naive_?”

“We are angels, Aziraphale. Mercy is only one side of what we do. There is also Judgment.”

“But always in love, especially for you,” Aziraphale insisted. “The stars in your crown stand for the Virtues, do they not? Humility, diligence, temperance, purity—”

“What’s your point?”

“—faith, hope, and _love_.”

“Humans get love, Aziraphale. We get orders.”

Aziraphale tossed down his napkin and stood. “Where on earth did you get that assumption?” he demanded, now wholly offended. “Again, you’re starting to sound like your brother.”

The humans around them continued to read their papers and nibble on toast. 

“Now you’re just prattling.” Michael eyed the coffee and it went ice cold out of spite. “A mere principality tainted by this world couldn’t possibly understand the need for judgment.”

“And a _mere_ archangel?”

“I’m no mere archangel.”

“Of course not. You’re the Prince. Where are these new ‘orders’ coming from?”

“None of this is new,” said Michael. “The Great Plan has been faithfully pronounced step-by-step by the Metatron for the past six thousand years. If there were orders to stop, we would have heard them.”

“Right. Heaven forbid you think for yourself.”

“Like I said, the world was meant to end. That we failed is a mistake that Heaven must correct at any cost.”

Aziraphale counted out the tab for the drinks as Michael turned to go. Leaving the payment under his cup on the table, Aziraphale followed Michael to the street. In a way, he felt much the same way he had following Gabriel down to Sodom all those centuries ago—only angry this time, because now he allowed himself to be angry instead of nervous. It wasn’t rage. It certainly wasn’t wrath. This anger burned low like carefully-tended coals stoking under a pot. 

“You know who’s not in Heaven’s good books, Michael? The kind of people who say things like ‘at any cost.’” When the prince kept walking, he added, “Perhaps Lord Beelzebub could give you a tour, and show you where those people are getting their _just_ reward.”

Thunder boomed and Michael stopped walking. He turned around, his bright blue eyes narrow, his smile flattened by exasperation. 

White bits of hail began to peck across the pavement. 

“Don’t pretend to know the will of the Almighty better than anyone else, Aziraphale,” said Michael. “The world is too wicked for any to hear Her voice.”

“Have _you_ tried recently?”

Frost crackled across the shop windows as Michael’s expression grew even colder. The hail was joined by a slashing, icy rain that didn’t quite touch either of them. It made pedestrians walk with quick but wary steps. Cars slid in their lanes on black ice. 

“The world has to end,” said Michael. “This was the verdict from the moment evil was born. Nothing good can stay. Everything risks corruption.”

“ _Everything_?”

“So I suggest you and your demon enjoy the world while it lasts. There is no way you can stop us this time.”

And at that moment the ground shook and the shops, the street lamps, and the cars all rocked with the tremor. Even the two angels staggered.

“What in the heavens…?” Aziraphale gasped, as something blinked behind the clouds.

“Very well.” 

Aziraphale looked down to see Michael picking himself up from the pavement. 

“Whether you deliver my message or not—”

“But didn’t you see—?”

“—you have me decided.”

Aziraphale’s stomach dropped again. He could almost smell the brimstone. “About what?”

“Thank you, Aziraphale,” said Michael. “I had wondered where to mark ground zero for Judgment Day.” 

“You most certainly aren’t serious.”

“We’ll start in Soho,” said Michael. 

“L-rd have mercy.”

“I suppose that’s up to you. Stay and protect them, if you can.”

Michael turned on his heel to walk away, but in mid-step he stopped suddenly. “What?” he asked. He turned back around and shot Aziraphale with an accusing look.

Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder. “Whatever do you mean?”

Michael shook his head, then lightning struck the spot where he stood and he shot skyward.

Aziraphale caught his breath and clutched at his racing heart. He felt pulled through a wringer and couldn’t explain why. He couldn’t say what he’d just seen. Or felt. Or what any of it meant.

At last Aziraphale made his way safely back to the shop. He locked himself in. 

“Crowley? Adam?”

There was no answer, and he sighed with relief. Next, he pulled down every shade and strode straight over to the telephone near the till. He pulled out his Rolodex, and lifted the receiver.

A moment later there was a ring on the other end. After another moment, a fluttering sound filled the shop and the telephone receiver dropped to the floor, ringing out.

* * *

**T** he Bentley’s tires squealed as it changed lanes, weaving around early morning traffic on the London Bridge. The clutch shifted again and the brake hit the floor as a bolt of red smashed down on the road in front of the car. All across the bridge, horns started blaring. A few individuals pulled up their parking breaks and pushed open their doors to properly scream at the descending weather.

Sandalphon stepped out of the smoke. 

He opened a hand and another bolt of lightning brought a mace to his grip. 

The Bentley perceptively pulled a U-Turn and crashed over a barrier. _[Author’s note: The Bentley was fine. The barrier was not.]_

Another pillar of lightning fell across its path and now Uriel arrived, bands of red fire falling around her like solar flares. She caught one and it solidified into a halberd. 

The Bentley rocked back on its tires, swerved left, then right, then backed up in a three point turn. Its wipers swung once, worriedly.

The two archangels closed in on the car. 

Leaning forward, Sandalphon peered through the windshield. “Well, where is he?” he asked.

Uriel shook her head, absolutely perplexed. “Is it possessed?”

“It’s his car,” said Sandalphon in the desperate tones of one who will believe in logic if it kills him. “A demon can’t own a possessed car.” 

Sandalphon was absolutely right. Demons are traditionally against the enslavement of their own. But any automobile owner, mortal or otherwise, will admit that there is such a thing as a _repossessed_ car. This is exactly why the Bentley could do as it did. Angels, not being prone to driving anywhere, have never learned this.

A third bolt of lightning landed and Michael was there, snow-white wings spread and sword at the ready.

“Where is he?”

“Not here.” Sandalphon lowered his voice and leaned over as Michael joined them. “Should we smite it?”

The Bentley suddenly kicked up dust as it squealed into a sharp turn. With a sputter of its exhaust pipe that sounded conspicuously like a certain demon’s raspberry, the car sped back along London Bridge, honking out rude lyrics to a tune that brought to mind sword fighting, lightning, and [ kilts ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lfv1dE3OjD8).

Sandalphon started after it, but Michael held up a hand. “Leave it.”

“But—”

“The warning’s been given,” said Michael. “The rest is up to Gabriel.”

* * *

**A** phone rang in Oxfordshire.

In a polished foyer, the front desk worker picked up the telephone. Her name was Carol. So said the nameplate in front of her. She was chief administrative assistant. It was less exciting than it sounded. 

Carol hit the switch for the outside line and the ringing stopped.

“Bodleian Library. This is Carol.”

“ _Carol? Lovely. Is Dr. Oswald A. Zealot in, please?”_

“I’m not sure but I can check for you.”

“ _Check? Also lovely. Actually, if you could leave the phone receiver on the counter facing the entrance hall, just while you go check, that would be remarkably helpful of you._ ”

Carol wasn’t readily influenced by the supernatural. She was, however, often influenced by boredom. At this station, she had reached levels of boredom that chose the sweater three days in advance and socks to match, just for something to do.

Carol set the receiver down on the counter as instructed, then strode from the hall and up the next stairway, to check the office of professor Oswald.

“Second time today,” she muttered.

* * *

**T** he clerk had just turned the corner on the library’s upper level when something odd happened in the foyer. 

The telephone was, in accordance to all the laws of thermonuclear dynamics, sitting quietly on the counter. In the next moment, however, a spectrum of pale color shot like a comet out of the phone’s earpiece and, after making an arc like a fountain, it deposited an angel wearing a tartan collar.

To go beyond the question of dancing socials on pinheads, angels and demons follow something like Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, although they’re generally more certain than Heisenberg. Whether traveling as one piece or on waves of light or darkness (respectively), they can also bring along by miracle whatever—and whoever—they need. 

Righting himself, Aziraphale straightened his coat and tie. “Goodness me, that _is_ much faster than a holy circle,” he said, as if he may have lost a bet.

Crowley and Adam, who had been waiting out in the courtyard, overheard and jogged back in.

“Starting to worry me, angel,” said Crowley, just as Carol returned.

“Welcome to the Old Bod,” she said cheerfully. “Would you sign in please?” She gestured to the counter, and then picked up the phone. “I’m sorry it seems that Doctor… Hello?” 

“Something the matter, miss?” asked Aziraphale conversationally. 

Carol looked from the phone to the angel as if there were something familiar between the two. Her expressions said “But that’s impossible,” and she put down the receiver and said, “Oh, they must have hung up.”

“What a shame.” 

“If you’ll just sign your name on this page please…”

“Of course.” Aziraphale had already picked up the pen.

The paragraph above the visitors sign-in sheet read as followed:

_“I hereby undertake not to remove from the Library, nor to mark, deface, or injure in any way, any volume, document or other object belonging to it or in its custody; not to bring into the Library, or kindle therein, any fire or flame, and not to smoke in the Library; and I promise to obey all rules of the Library.”_

It was a very nice oath, and Aziraphale didn’t mind signing it with his alias.

Adam plucked up the pen next. “How does this work?” he asked.

“Oh, the Old Bod has an interesting price of admission, besides the usual,” Aziraphale explained cheerfully. “To prevent the loss of knowledge, all visitors are required to swear an oath at the door that they will neither make nor stoke any fire on the premises.”

“You don’t have to read it aloud,” added Carol, a bit annoyed that the visitor was doing her job (and so leaving her with something less to do). “Unless you want to.”

Adam nodded sagely. “Makes sense. Fire’s bad for books,” he remarked, tapping the pen to his chin. “It’s not in Latin though. I thought you needed Latin to make it official.”

“Oh, you can try Latin if you like,” Carol said, “It’s on the other side.”

Adam explored this with great interest. He stumbled at first, but carried on. Adam had taken an interest in Latin, much like many others, ethereal and occult included, after reading Dante’s _Divine Comedy_. (He had a natural propensity for it.) After his recitation, he also signed his name. 

“I should add a middle initial,” he told Crowley, “to make it more official.”

“J’s are nice,” remarked Crowley, who approved. 

“I like N,” said Adam. He put it down with his best flourish. “It makes the initials are ‘any.’ Then I can be ‘anyone.’”

“That is clever,” said Aziraphale. “Just an ‘N’ then?”

“I’ll think of something later.”

Aziraphale glanced fondly at Crowley, who was beaming the ‘chip off the ol’ block’ grin that comes naturally to a proud mentor.

“What next?” Adam asked Carol. “Do we have to prick our fingers and mark it with blood? Or wear ashes burned at Midnight?”

“Traditionally, students take the oath at Michaelmas,” Carol explained patiently. (She had heard stranger theories.) “But a simple signature is fine.” 

Crowley swapped the rucksack he was carrying to his other shoulder, took the pen, and signed his preferred name as well. The rucksack was, of course, only nearly empty.

Carol tilted her head. “Excuse me, sir, your sunglasses…”

“Prescription, I’m afraid,” Crowley said charmingly. “I’m sensitive about it.” He waved vaguely at the lights.

“Of course, sir.”

Aziraphale asked, “Excuse me, but I heard one, Doctor Oswald A. Zealot works here. Is that still the case?”

“It is, but it seems he’s out. Are you a colleague?”

“Oh, well, that is flattering,” said Aziraphale. 

“Not at all, angel,” said Crowley warmly. “We’re schoolmates,” he told Carol, “from back in the day. Thought we’d stop by and show our godson the place.”

“How endearing. Well, he’s not in his office, but I’m sure he’s around,” said Carol. To Adam, she said, “Would you like to take the self-guided tour?”

She gestured to some nearby pamphlets, so Adam took one and thanked her politely. 

“Enjoy the library.”

Together they entered the vaulted rooms where wooden shelves gleamed in low lamplight. 

Adam’s voice dropped to an excited whisper. “This is amazing. We’re like secret agents, pretending to be his colleagues.”

“The trick is that we were his colleagues,” said Aziraphale primly. “It is best to avoid falsehood when at all possible, Adam.”

“But you lie a lot, Uncle Aziraphale.”

“I… I don’t think I do.”

Crowley gave the angel a fond smile.

“I do suppose I have to adjust certain statements of fact at times,” Aziraphale admitted. “But only so as not to burden mortals with my profound existence.”

“You told the customer yesterday that you didn’t own a first edition of _Hamlet_ when you…”

“That’s different. He wouldn’t have cared for it as I have.”

Crowley beamed fondly at them both.

Before looking for the doctor, the three visitors investigated all the shelves, even the ones Crowley thought looked rather boring. Crowley ran his long fingers along the spines of books as they went. Dust-free. Seemed unnatural. 

It was clear from the extent and variety of the collections that the keepers of this library didn’t mess around. At least one of them didn’t. The old scholar had always had a soft spot for knowledge. And for hazel eyes, as it happened. It hadn’t been his fault really. No one had warned him.

Adam was reporting from the pamphlet: “The old library was used as the Hogwarts library in Harry Potter.” 

They climbed the next staircase, Aziraphale using the handrail while Crowley plugged his hands into his pockets and let himself weave up the steps, head craned back to stare at the ceiling. It was an impressive building. There was impressive architecture and more books than anyone could shake a stick at. 

“It isn’t just books here, Adam,” Aziraphale was saying. “There are scrolls, astrolabes, even artwork. The Bodleian is a treasury of knowledge.”

“Wicked.”

“That too, possibly,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Which is why you’re leaving that bit to me,” Crowley assured him with a touch on his shoulder. 

“So you really know an angel who works here?” Adam whispered, once they were well away from the front desk. The second floor overlooked a study area and the ceiling was vaulted in shadow. 

“Former angel,” Crowley corrected.

“He was one of the Watchers,”Aziraphale explained. “At the time, there was a great deal of traffic between Heaven and Earth, looking after Adam—the first Adam, that is—and the blossoming human race. He got himself into a bit of trouble.”

“You mean, he fell?” asked Adam.

“Well, yes and no,” said Crowley, eyeing the shadowy aisles across the way. “He was already down here when the decision was made. Word has it every archangel but Raphael was sent after him though.”

“But the stories say that Raphael—”

“Well, as a book collector, I can tell you books are not always accurate,” said Aziraphale, as Crowley scratched his fire-red hair and eyed the ceiling. “The point is, he was disowned.” 

“What did he do?”

“Ah…” Crowley shrugged. “It gets a bit complicated there.”

“I read he has fourteen heads. Does he really have fourteen heads? With necks too?” asked Adam. “Or was that the wings on each side?”

“We all have our favorite forms,” shrugged Crowley. “Anyway, he’s an old drinking buddy of mine now. We’d get together once every half a millennium or so to talk about—”

Aziraphale made a little cough. 

“—stuff, boring stuff, same as anyone talks about.”

Aziraphale asked, “You do remember where he put the door, don’t you, my dear?”

“He’s got sorta a code for it,” Crowley said. “It changes, now and then.”

“Like a secret passage?” asked Adam.

“Very like,” said Crowley. “Exactly like.” He held Aziraphale’s gaze pointedly. “And you and Aziraphale are going to go check doors over there”—He pointed to a vague place where it seemed the library kept going—“while I look this way.”

Aziraphale nodded and happily steered Adam away from where they both knew the door was.

* * *

**M** eanwhile, downstairs, another visitor arrived. This one smiled and, upon learning what the rules for entry were, read the oath in perfect Latin, much to Carol’s surprise. He didn’t even look at the paper.

“Did you learn in school?” Carol asked.

“Why, yes,” said the man immediately. “That is a thing that people do in school that I did.” He smiled broadly. It was a trusting smile, and so the kind that made other people feel naturally trusting without thinking. 

Faith was a virtue, after all.

Carol checked the name below the oath. There was surprisingly, only one. She looked back up at the visitor. He had very strange-colored eyes. She forgot to ask for another name. 

“Well, enjoy the library, Mr. Gabriel.”

“Oh, just Gabriel,” said the man with the violet eyes. “And I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The library oath is a real thing! Fire and damp are the terrors of libraries everywhere. The Old Bod’s been updated since decades past, but the air is quite dry.
> 
> Sorry it's taken me so long to post. The stress IRL has been weighing on me.


	13. Chapter the Thirteenth - Of Fire and Icing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The angel glanced back through a small gap over the top of the books. About a dozen shelves away, he could see the tail of a dove-gray coat._

**A** wise man once said, wisdom always looks bigger far away. 

Modern capitalism encourages this notion. After all, if a man in his midlife crisis and in possession of a large disposable income _knew_ he could seek wisdom from a penniless beggar in rags on his own street, he wouldn’t spend thousands of dollars to find wisdom from some _other_ penniless beggar halfway across the world . 

Somewhere east of a certain city, ancient walls, steps, and towers stand crumbling impressively behind stanchions and fences. Each bit of rubble is labeled in several languages by a helpful plaque. 

In front of the tiered rubble, a brightly colored bus parked. It had a very large stylized banner on one side which read in blackletter, “Holy Land Adventures: Walk the Bible.” The bus was owned by the same company that had made the plaques. It disgorged its load, which was technicolor in its clothing choices. 

They were, of course, tourists. 

Out stepped their tour guide next. She wore a smart, double-breasted blue coat with bronze buttons. She raised a small blue pennant flag and the passengers quieted long enough for her to announce that the time was one-thirty-five p.m. and that all passengers were due back on the bus at two-thirty. After that, it would be up the next road and around the mountain to the vineyards for wine-tasting. Their final stop would be the gift shop, where they could buy bits of stone, jars of dirt, and packets of bath salts made locally (but somehow also bottled in China) as gifts for the friends back home. 

Her job done, the tour guide climbed back into the bus, unscrewed her smile, and rubbed at the back of her sore ankles. She shared a small nip of something with the driver that he probably shouldn’t have been drinking on duty, and thanked someone for the bus’s tinted windows. 

Meanwhile, the collective mass contracted, then extended, and eventually veered in the general direction of the palace. Their collective snapping of photos was not unlike the chatter of certain breeds of cicada or locusts descending upon a field. 

Maggie Brown held up her phone like she was scanning for intelligent life on an alien planet. _[Author’s note: By the way she kept at it, she wasn’t finding any.]_

“Will you just look at all this history,” she said to her husband, whose name was Frank.

“Yes, Mags.”

“You wouldn’t see it so clear just watching telly.”

“No, Mags.”

“Just wait until we show the folks at Bible Study.”

“Yes, Mags.”

Maggie swung the phone camera around.

“Smile, Frank.”

Frank Brown had married at twenty-four and was happy. He had never aspired to more than three meals a day, a late-night television program (two on Friday nights), and Super Bowl Sunday at the pub. He let Maggie make all the decisions for them both. Maggie was also happy.

Frank smiled.

A less impressive bit of ruin stood not ten meters away, sporting modern plumbing, tiled walls, and a doorway over which stood a green Exit sign. 

The “X” flickered off, and someone joined the tour.

“You can just feel the holiness radiating off this place, can’t you, Frank?” asked Maggie. 

“Yes, Mags.”

“Oh, show a little enthusiasm. We’re on holy ground.”

“Didn’t the tour guide say Herod was a tyrant?”

“But a tyrant in the _Bible_ , Frank. That makes him holy.”

“Wouldn’t say that too loudly,” muttered the person who had not been on the bus. He wore black. This wasn’t strange except that none of the dust was clinging to it like it did everything else. The man split off from the group the next moment and proceeded to climb over a stanchion. Frank stared after him, then walked up to the barrier, curious. He watched the man pull a wooden lid off a crumbling well.

“Um, are you s’pose to be back there, sir?”

“Yup.”

“I’m not sure you’re allowed to do that.”

“ ’S a’right.”

The man dropped straight down the hole.

There was no splash.

No sound at all.

* * *

**A** fter checking all the Exit doors but the one Crowley was sure to be using, Aziraphale had happily heeded Adam’s request that they pass the time by finding some very large, very impressive looking books, and sitting down to read them. Aziraphale had taken the spare moment to contact Anathema about a time she might pick up Adam and then obliged. _[Author’s note: It said something about Anathema that she didn’t ask how they’d reached Oxford without the car.]_

The two were sitting quietly at one of the long polished tables on the first floor when Aziraphale started to feel something was amiss. He would chide himself later for it, but there was a fascinating scan of the Wycliffe Bible before him, and he and Adam had been distracted discussing it’s proper use of the neutral pronoun “them.”

“It’s one of my favorite pronouns,” Adam concluded. “Quite polite too, when you think about it. _Th_ ’s make everything politer: thous, thees, and thems.”

“Yes, but it is important to respect new pronouns, too. I knew an angel who—” Aziraphale stopped mid-sentence. Something had tickled his senses like a butterfly’s landing. 

“What’s wrong?” asked Adam.

The library around them was quiet—a close, sturdy quiet that muffled most footsteps, except when an aging floorboard _squeaked_. 

“Adam.” Aziraphale stood up quickly and shut his book. 

“What is it?” asked Adam.

Someone called, “Aziraphale!”

From the lobby, Carol said, “ _Shh!_ ”

Aziraphale quickly beckoned, and he and Adam moved around a shelf and out of sight. They put their back to the rows of books and crouched down a little, each holding his breath.

The voice called again. “Aziraphale, stay where you are and make this easy.”

“Can he sense you?” Adam whispered. 

“Oh, no doubt about it.” Just within the ether, the outline of Aziraphale’s wings appeared, catching rainbows and spreading a shine about the place. A swell of fresh love unfurled with them, rolling to all corners of the building. “But that doesn’t mean we’ll be easy to find.”

Gabriel called, “Nice trick, Aziraphale, but I’ve got all day.”

“ _Shh!_ ”

Adam asked, “What now?” He had squared his shoulders. He really was braver than any boy his age should have had to be, thought Aziraphale.

The angel glanced back through a small gap over the top of the books. About a dozen shelves away, he could see the tail of a dove-gray coat.

“Now we find Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered. “And I… Well, let’s start with that.”

They hurried down the next row of books towards the stairs to the upstairs offices. Aziraphale had already drawn the map in his head. 

“What if we lead him to Azazel?”

“One can only hope.”

* * *

**I** n the dark, two fingers snapped. A light came on from vaguely underfoot, pulsing green and yellow around Crowley’s feet. Satisfied to have the pitch darkness out of the way, Crowley left the well behind and stepped into the cavern. 

Hanging high as the domed ceiling, stretched on lines like a pauper’s laundry, pale strips of dried linen were fluttering in the draft. They swayed and twirled, each holding its wind-whirled, time-crisped shape. They were old. Very old. Crowley shivered and puffed breath against his palms. Old could last forever in a place this cold.

A snake could not.

There was a path. Crowley set off down it. Despite the hovering light, its dust shone silver. There were other footprints. They were not human.

Crowley still had the rucksack. Since the day before, the Stone had been swaddled in linen rags of a very particular nature (Aziraphale’s idea), and placed into a rush basket and then into a leather sack. The drawstrings were knotted in the shape of a sigil (Anathema’s idea). Crowley was fairly certain this meant it was secure, but as he walked he could feel the air moving around him in ways time and space preferred not to. 

He had a sinking feeling, and not just because he was underground. Azazel made a good drinking buddy, but he’d just as soon pour an angel a glass of wine as a demon, so long as they were polite. He was determined to play the neutral party.

“Better be worth it,” muttered Crowley, and looked up again. He squinted. The strips of ancient cloth overhead had turned to a darker shade. He was going the right way. 

The path led eventually into another room. Here also the air clattered with the flutter of old cloth. The sound was unnerving, like a flock of moths in the dark. It was a sound that made it to the top ten on Crowley’s list of unpleasant sounds. Could make your skin itch, the sound of moths. It was like the fear of the feeling that they’d land would grow so intense that your imagination would try to save you by just getting it over with before they did. It was a funny thing, fear. In all his studies as a tempter, Crowley had never learned if fear was condemning. Cowardice, sure—cowardice required a choice of action—but fear? It just seemed a part of living. 

The floor ended abruptly halfway across the chamber as the stony cliff came to a point. There was an official looking bit of rock there, carved with a warning in very old letters, the ancient equivalent of a _Watch Your Step_ sign.

Crowley drew a deep breath and shivered again. Then he strode up to the rock, picked up a fist-sized stone, and brought it down hard on the monument. The impact clapped like a musket shot. Then the echo faded, but the innumerable wind catchers kept chattering away.

Then they slowed.

And stilled.

The air went quiet.

Something in the pit groaned like thunder. There was a crack and the ground shook. A gale rose, and with it a shadow, wrapped around a body rank with the stench of carrion. 

It was enormous, a behemoth, a hole of dark against the dark. It had too many heads and too many eyes and at least a dozen wings on either side. Its legs ended in flint hooves. 

Its wings spilled as it touched down on the edge of the cliff. There was a crackle of straining stone. The many eyes leered, glaring gold as its voice hissed like a radiator: “ _WHO DARES TRESPASS IN MY DOMAI_ —? Dear me, Crowley, ol’ boy, is that you?”

It was a voice like a late-night radio program. 

Crowley unfurled a grin and pretended he had not been for a moment terrified. “Ozzy, yeah, sorry to be a bit early. You’re looking well.” 

“It’s the new diet.” Instantly the eldritch monstrosity vanished and was replaced by Dr. Oswald A. Zealot, Esq. He seemed to be a middle-aged man of medium-height. He had impressively groomed whiskers and not much hair but that behind his notably pointed ears. His sturdy buzzard wings were currently tucked under a terry cloth dressing gown. He wore slippers. They had plushy goat heads. 

Somehow, he held a steaming mug of tea. Its side read, “I tip for goats.”

He said, “My, but you’re looking thin as a rake—as usual. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait?”

“Archangels.”

“Oh, b—ger.”

* * *

**A** n archangel was about seven shelves behind Aziraphale and Adam.

They were now on the second floor, on a walkway overlooking the lower level. Before them was an oak door with a little brassy plaque which read “Dr. Oswald A. Zealot, Esq.” Aziraphale tried the knob. It was locked. He fumbled at his pockets.

“Can’t you miracle it open?” asked Adam.

“Those marks on the doorframe aren’t scratches,” explained Aziraphale. He fished a small leather roll from an inner vest pocket. “I’m afraid they ward off miracles.”

He unrolled the leather. Inside were a number of sturdy wires bent in various ways, each in its own narrow pocket. 

Adam’s eyes lit up despite their peril. “You can pick locks?”

Aziraphale flickered a shy smile. “Well, one gathers hobbies in one’s longevity.”

“Wicked.”

“It has perfectly practical and legal and _not wicked_ uses…” Aziraphale worked two wires into the latch, pressed down with one and started slowly prodding with the other. He was only halfway through when, up the hallway, Gabriel stepped around the corner. Gabriel’s presence rolled ahead of the archangel like a cold tide. 

“Aziraphale, why am I not surprised?”

“Adam…” Aziraphale nodded and Adam took the pins so the angel’s hands would be free. 

Aziraphale straightened his jacket and placed himself between Gabriel and the boy. He turned up his chin, more than ready to bluff his way out of another unwanted meeting. “Now, Gabriel, this is private property and it would be discourteous to the mortals here to engage in any… harsh discourse.”

“Your hypocrisy knows no bounds,” said Gabriel hotly. 

“Well, I have to say the feeling is mutual.”

“You would lecture me while you’re here, blatantly breaking and entering?”

“Well, what do you call what you’re doing?”

“To be honest—because _I_ am honest—I’m here on orders from Michael.”

“Yes, you’re very good at doing what you’re told.”

“I’m looking for ‘Dr. Zealot’, not you. But I saw your name on the roster when I came in and I’ve come prepared.” 

Slowly, Gabriel opened one hand. At first it seemed empty, then something flickered on the tips of his fingers, red and gold. It gathered in his palm and unfurled upward, stretching like a waking cat.

“You’re welcome to run,” he added. “I assume that’s why you’re not in Soho.” 

At the sight of the strange, gold-red flame, Aziraphale’s already fragile smile faltered completely. “What is that?”

“It’s not hellfire.” Gabriel took a step forward. “I can promise it will hurt.”

“That is very bad form, Gabriel, if you signed the oath in the lobby.”

“It would be bad if by not cooperating _you_ let this place burn down, Aziraphale.”

Suddenly, behind him Aziraphale heard a click and turned. “Adam—”

Three things happened at once.

Adam said, “It wasn’t me!”

Gabriel hurled the ball of chaotic red fire straight at Aziraphale. 

The esteemed Dr. Zealot (now in tweeds), stepped out and caught the fire in one hand. It snarled at him and he shook it like a naughty cat. The tendrils clung about his arm, but cringed under his stare.

“Azazel,” said Gabriel. His violet eyes paled silver with fear. 

“I wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but you’re beyond even my tea and sympathy at this point, Gabriel,” said the librarian.

“Nonsense,” said Gabriel, his tone friendly but his brow breaking an unangelic sweat. “In fact, why don’t you do what you do best and _stay_ uninvolved for five more minutes?”

Azazel fixed the archangel with a hard and cold orange gaze, then proved he did not need a big body for a big voice. “ _IS THIS HOW EASILY WE BREAK THE RULES, GABRIEL?_ ”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“ _YOU WHO WERE NAMED ‘THE STRENGTH OF G-D’? DO YOU THINK HER SO WEAK AS TO MAKE VOWS LIKE WATER?_ ”

“Now, Azazel”—Gabriel turned on an empty grin and held up a placating hand—“You’ve been out of the loop. Michael’s sent me to—”

“ _SO, YOU GO WHERE YOU’RE TOLD AND YOU DO WHAT YOU WOULDN’T. BY OUR OWN WORDS WE ARE ALL JUDGED_.”

“What are you talking about?”

“ _YOU’RE POWERLESS_.” Azazel hurled the fire back down the hallway. 

Gabriel caught it but the flame spread like the unwieldy feline of flame it was, crawling and clawing like something in dismay. 

Azazel gestured again, throwing his hand up in the air with a quick but complex dance of his fingertips.

The archangel Gabriel vanished from the Bodleian Library, and went Someplace Else.

Down in the lobby, Carol said, “ _Shh!_ ” again.

And for a long moment, the library was quiet. 

The exile Azazel lowered his hand. He still glared sternly at the empty place. “Good riddance,” he muttered.

“Cor,” said Adam, and grinned ear to ear. Aziraphale nodded shakily. 

At that point, Crowley leaned out the door and looked up and down the hallway. “Sorry to keep you two,” he said.

Azazel broke the mood with a smile. “Well, come in,” he said with a sigh. “Needless to say, you’ve been expected.”

* * *

**A** fter a pitched whistling sound, Gabriel hit packed dirt and his shoulder starburst with pain. This was the least of his worries because the fire was clawing like a tiger and snarling besides and it seemed to grow the more he fought with it. Clutching at the mess, he opened his wings, ready to throw it off. 

Then another sound caught his ears, and suddenly escape was not the most important thing. With a roar of effort, Gabriel dug in his grip, flipped onto his back and with a beat of his wings hurled the whole chaotic fire skyward. It shot up, and up, and crashed into the sky like a snarling firework. 

Gabriel did not see the impact, but he heard screams, not of pain but of fear. There were words for times like this, words like “Lo” and “Fear not.” He tried to stand, but he couldn’t even sit up. The struggle had left him trembling and weak.

So instead, for only the third time in his long life (though the second time in recent memory) Gabriel blacked out.

* * *

**I** t is commonly understood that while witches and wizards both study and work with magic, their professions have many differences. For one, wizards prefer quiet study in towers (some in libraries) and witches tend to get out more. Overall, this has to do with their goals regarding magic.

As part of their trade, Wizards are good at binding things. You have to be when you never know what might kill you. 

Crowley had placed the Philosopher’s Stone on the heavy oaken desk, but not before Azazel had put a straightedge and compass to use making a proper chalk circle. It wasn’t a pentagram or even alchemy though. The pattern was much older, all interlocking circles like a flower. 

Crowley could not have said _how_ the chalk was keeping the Stone where it was, but the artefact’s usual glimmer was straining against the lines. The circle's creation had given him and Aziraphale just enough time to bring the exile up to speed—and for Azazel to express his distaste at the whole idea.

“You’re sure you don’t want it for your collection?” Crowley asked.

“For the last time, no.”

“I’ll stop asking when you explain why not,” Crowley said. 

At the moment, Crowley lingered in the doorway, both to be as far from the Stone as possible and to keep an eye out for any other unpleasant visitors. Aziraphale and Adam sat on a narrow but comfortable sofa, Adam turning pages in a book on cuneiform while the angel studied the scholar’s copious notes. Now and then Aziraphale’s eyes flickered with golden interest to the spines of the books on the shelves.

The Sometimes Dr. Oswald A. Zealot was wearing pince-nez spectacles. He sat on the edge of the desk, regarding the device with more calm than Crowley thought it rightly deserved. 

He answered, “You have nothing to worry about so long as you use it the same way a human might. It may be recording every eventuality in the history of all probable universes, but on a _practical_ level, it is also a magic miracle box that could help your current plight.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to think of it that way?” asked Aziraphale. 

Azazel sipped tea from a fresh mug. This one read, “I love my kids.” He asked, “Do you have a better idea?”

He got no answer. 

“Humans were meant to use this and they have,” Azazel went on, “Creation didn’t stop after seven days. It’s meant to be a continuing process.”

“I thought G-d made it perfect,” said Adam curiously.

“The Almighty made it _good_ . Perfect isn’t good.” Azazel chuckled. “Perfect doesn’t _change_.” He set aside the mug and cracked his knuckles. “Creation was good, and so is reconciliation, renewal, restoration. This Stone was in Eden for the mortals there. It is a passing of a torch from one generation to the next, from the Almighty to the angels to Adam and his kin.”

“Speaking of torches,” said Crowley, and nodded pointedly at the empty hallway.

“No normal flame will burn in my libraries,” Azazel confirmed. 

“You really stopped fire with that oath?” asked Adam, his eyes bright. “Does the oath have to be in Latin? What if someone said it backwards?” 

“It’s all about the warding,” Azazel said patiently. “But those flames Gabriel was toting? Those were the fires of Chaos.”

“You know about that?” asked Crowley. 

Azazel nodded. “Lucifer has come to me plenty of times, trying to enlist my skills, promising artefacts I could study.” He tapped his lenses on his palm. “He’s brought the Torch up more than once.”

“What is the Torch?” asked Adam. 

“The tooth of Leviathan,” said Azazel, and let his eyebrows rise dramatically. “It turns flame into hellfire, but its own flame draws energy from the chaos of some place _not_ of this world. I’ve theorized quite a lot about it, actually. I expected it’s fires would bypass my oath magic. Your witch friend is welcome to take a look at my notes. Perhaps she knows something that might stop it more thoroughly. As for this”—He pointed to the chalk circle—“Crowley, you can use this pattern to keep the Stone under control if you’re so worried about it.”

“Me?”

“It seems to think it belongs to you.”

Crowley hissed unhappily through his teeth. “Why?”

“Oh, it could send out a signal any day, look for a new master, but it’s attached to you right now. That’s why the archangels couldn’t sense it in the bookshop.”

“I knew it was like a fingerprint lock,” said Adam excitedly. 

“Yes, in a way,” said Azazel with a shrug. “But if you don’t use it, it’ll likely start signaling for pickup.”

“What, like an SOS?” asked Crowley.

“It has to. Something like this can’t be getting lost.”

Crowley sighed and folded his arms. “Has to be chalk, does it?”

“Yes, she was always very insistent about that,” said Azazel, not specifying who. “When you mark something, it marks you. When you change something, it changes you. We do not exist in a void as our Creator did. We are both parts of and participants in our world.”

Crowley shifted uneasily. “You know I was never one for keeping the faith.”

“Yet for a demon, you have plenty.”

“Jeez, Ozzy, not in front of the kid,” Crowley muttered, feeling his stomach turn oddly. Azazel just _said_ things like that. The scholar’s ideas of good and evil were never about, well, _good_ and _evil_. They’d never been about identity. Just philosophy—fish ponds and trolleys and all that. The way Azazel talked at times, he seemed nearly human. Apparently that’s what happened when you married one.

Aziraphale chimed in, “But, Azazel, if angels are using the Torch of Prometheus as more than a token or truce, what does that mean?”

“It means they’re feeding chaos into the equation.”

“And that’s bad?’

“It’s not good. There’s an order to things, for good or ill. If you want to shake things up, you add chaos. Do that, and the balance can tip one way or the other.”

“And are they marked then?” asked Aziraphale. “Will this change them?”

“Perhaps, again for good or ill.”

“For ill,” Crowley scoffed. “It’s always for ill in the end. They’re tempting humans. Tempting them, like demons.”

“Worse. Like angels.” Aziraphale’s expression crumpled in dismay. 

“I’m glad to be done with those politics.” Azazel dusted his hands. “And I’ll be happy to remain uninvolved until the world does end for certain.”

“But you beat Gabriel,” said Adam. “You can fight.”

“Adam, it’s rude to pry,” said Crowley.

“It’s alright.” Azazel forced a smile. “Here, yes, Adam, I can fight. I had a few traps laid and ready. But I’m not so helpful on the battlefield.” He cut a finger across a line of the chalk flower. The air fizzled with searching power. He added, “I’ve never been much of a fighter in any case.”

“And no one’s asking you to fight, Ozzy,” said Crowley. “But we’re at our wit’s end.” He carefully packed the Stone back into its cloth without touching it. Lastly he tied the drawstrings into their proper sigils. “The stakes are too high.” 

“I lost everything I’d stake long ago.” Azazel pulled out a drawer. He snapped free a dust cloth and deftly cleaned away the chalk markings. “You built stars. They’re still there. I won’t lie, though, this tool could do wonders in the hand of a craftsperson.”

“I’m nothing special.”

“Of course you are, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley smiled for his sake, then said, “Ozzy. _Azazel_ , we wouldn’t ask if we had any other options.”

“You do have options. But you’re in denial about them.”

“I’m not the one living in a well with pet goats.”

“Yet.” Azazel smiled his crooked smile. “I think Aziraphale’s right, Crowley. I think you’re an artist, and that’s why it called to you. If you don’t believe me, believe Hell. Three years ago, they tried to kill you, but now they’re practically courting you. You don’t think the timing is a bit on point?”

“I’m no one important.”

“I know you don’t believe that.”

Crowley didn’t. He still had his pride. 

“Look, Crowley, you two both know why I’ve sworn off interfering with humans.”

“So don’t. Just throw this thing down a bottomless pit and be done with it.”

“And if the angels fish it back out again? I’m sorry.” Azazel stood and gestured towards the door. “You have taken the tiger by the tail. Letting go is not an option. Best of luck to you.”

Crowley paused, then drew a loud breath for a final, rallying protest—then he let it go. He did, most days, try to not be a hypocrite.

“Thanks anyway, Ozzy,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

* * *

**I** t was nearing sunset when Gabriel’s eyes fluttered open. He was staring across a packed dirt yard. He could still hear children laughing. That made the pain in his shoulder and arm seem worth it. He remembered the ball of red fire hurling skyward and looked up. It looked like red fireworks were going off all across the sky. 

Something between them and the world glistened, transparent yet bright when the light caught. It made him think of ice. The whole of it must have been miles across, shielding the play yard by turning the wayward Torch fire into nothing more than a harmless lightshow. 

It was only then that Gabriel realized he wasn’t alone. His head was resting on someone’s lap and a hand was smoothing down his haphazard hair, which the wrestling match with fire had left standing on end. 

“Well…” He tried to think of something clever to say, but as a messenger he had never been good at using his own words, so he fell back on that morning. “I must have lost track of time.”

Michael smiled. It was a rarer smile than the one he wore most days. “We’ve a little while yet.”

“How did you find me?”

“Azazel’s been mad at me, too. That, and you sent up a beacon.”

“Sorry for the mess.” Gabriel shut his eyes and waved vaguely starward. He relaxed into Michael’s touch. “There were children, so…” 

“I understand.”

The fireworks blossomed and thundered overhead. 

“You look horrible,” Michael added.

“I feel horrible.” Gabriel’s face collapsed in misery and he clapped one hand across his eyes. “I’m sorry, Michael. I didn’t see Crowley at all.”

“We’ll think of something.” 

Eventually, the fireworks ended and Michael made a simple gesture. The ice in the air cracked, then broke with a distant _crash_. It dissolved quickly into the atmosphere, not even coming close to the ground. 

Together the angels staggered to their feet. 

When it comes to reality, children are less oblivious than adults but also less concerned. There were still children in the park, but they were spending the last of the daylight on one last game of chase, or a jump from the swings, and only one bothered paying the two angels any mind. 

Gabriel winced and tucked his wings away as they headed for the gate. (It wouldn’t do to call down lightning right there.) He wrapped one hand around his bruised arm. “Why on Earth or anywhere do the English call that spot the ‘funny bone’?” he muttered.

“Excuse me? Sirs?”

The angels stopped at the yard’s metal gate. A boy about twelve years old was staring at them. He looked curious and concerned. Beside him was a girl of about four, intent on nothing but drumming a blue ball on the dirt. Whenever she did, it went _boing_.

The boy asked, “You’re angels, right?”

“What makes you think that?” asked Michael.

“The wings,” he said. 

_Boing._

“Fair enough,” said Gabriel.

“And you broke the sky.”

 _Boing. Boi—Ba-papa-paaa…_ The girl chased the ball as it rolled back from Gabriel’s knee and he caught it for her. 

“It’s fine,” he said.

“There’s a _crack_ in it,” the boy explained. 

“My friend had a fight with a magical librarian in Oxford,” explained Michael. 

“It’s okay now,” added Gabriel. He handed the girl back her ball. “Sorry to startle you, I mean, fear not.” He waved his hands for a bit of show. 

“Too little, too late,” Michael murmured.

“Force of habit,” Gabriel murmured back.

“Is it gonna break more?” the boy asked.

“We’ll get somebody on it,” Michael assured him. “You kids be good.”

“Okay.”

Michael helped Gabriel limp around the corner of the post office. Then with a bit of effort they soared heavenward in a bolt of lightning. 

At the play yard gate, the boy looked up once more at the broken sky. The fireworks had been nice for a while. So had the crystal-clear ice that glittered whenever they burst. But now he could see again amid the scattered stars:

The long, hairline crack that left it all askew.

* * *

**A** nathema smiled pleasantly at Carol despite the offered pen. She held tightly to the handles of her tote bag.

“Oh, I _wish_ I could,” she said, “but signing oaths is against my religion.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, oaths and swearing and all that. It’s like a sort of pledge to G-d.” She shrugged. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Not at all. It’s such a lovely tradition. You know, in America, most people just don’t have nice traditions. Nothing’s old enough. You are so lucky to be working in Oxford.”

“It has its ups and downs, Ms.…” 

“Anathema,” the woman offered her hand and they shook. “Anathema Device.”

“You made it!” 

Anathema turned as Carol shushed loudly in the direction of Adam Young. The boy took the nearest stair two steps at a time and hurried over, beaming.

“Did you meet anyone on the way? Is Dog with you?”

“He’s in the car,” Anathema assured him. “How was your visit?”

“I met a wizard, and I spoke Latin.”

“Really? That’s great.” Anathema raised her eyes to shoot the following demon and angel a curious look over the top of her glasses. They smiled innocently. 

Crowley said, “Don’t kids say the darndest things?”

Carol laughed pleasantly.

Once they were in the courtyard, Crowley and Aziraphale filled the witch in about the visit and Aziraphale showed her the notes.

After leafing carefully through them, Anathema said, “Typical. You know, Wizards are like particle physicists. They are so concerned with stuff that hasn’t even happened yet, things that might not ever happen.”

“I think the preoccupation is with making sure certain things never happen,” Crowley pointed out. 

“Even so, we’re on our own,” admitted Aziraphale.

“No,” said Anathema decisively. “If this war is angels and demons against humans, there should be something more we can do on the human side of things. There’s time. We know there’s time. I’ll talk to my mother. She can send a call out to the W-three.”

“I’m sorry, to the what?” Aziraphale turned his head on one side.

“It used to be the W-four, but we lost a hyphen, but that’s not important.” Anathema waved a hand quickly. “It stands for Worldwide Witch Web. It’s a network.”

“Is it anything like a worldwide witch-hunters network?” asked Crowley suspiciously.

“No, it still exists.” Anathema smiled apologetically. “They’re not _all_ witches, of course, not in name. But they’re friends of my mother—witches, warlocks, paranormal detectives, archivists, monster hunters, men of letters. They’ve got experience that could help us.”

“It’s a risk,” Crowley reminded her.

“So is sitting back and watching the world burn. I don’t think any of us have made that a habit.”

Aziraphale smiled fondly. “Well, if you think it will help.”

“I’m certainly not leaving this up to you two. Last time you tried to save the world—do I have to mention a certain muzzle-loading Thundergun?”

Since she technically _had_ mentioned it, the angel and demon both went red in the face with embarrassment.

“I’ll talk to her tonight and let you know,” said Anathema. “Can I give you a lift?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, with some uncertainty, “you could call us a—well—”

“Can you call us?” Crowley asked.

* * *

**G** abriel and Michael arrived at the West Gate after sunset. Their first thought was to head to the healers wing, but Gabriel felt a familiar fire flickering over his skin and when he said so, they decided on the observation deck instead. They took the back way. 

Beyond the infinite window, the monuments of the world stood in silhouette against a matte of starry skies. 

Across from the slowly turning orb of the model Earth, Sandaphon and Uriel were standing at a table, looking over the much flatter map of a certain desert facility. There were gold and black pins stuck in it. The black ones had horns.

Uriel saw Sandalphon’s jaw drop, then looked for herself and gasped. “Gabriel, w—what happened to you?”

“Wizard,” said Gabriel shortly. 

The other two archangels watched wide-eyed as he leaned both hands on the table. As he caught his breath, wisps of red fire danced across his fingertips. 

“And what _else_ happened?” asked Sandalphon worriedly.

“Azazel wasn’t a very good host,” Michael said shortly. 

“Things went a bit sideways at the library,” Gabriel said. “I think… I overdid it.” He pushed his hands through his hair. There were sparks on his palms when he looked at them again. Catching Michael’s equally worried stare, he said, “I didn’t know how much I’d need.” 

“You should put it back,” Michael said, and nudged him gently towards the Torch, which burned quiescently just a few meters away.

Sandalphon offered a hand and helped Gabriel over to the pillar. “What was it like?” he whispered.

“A bit dusty, to be honest. And really quiet for some reason.”

“Not that.” Sandalphon lowered his voice, a fact for which Gabriel’s aching head alone was profoundly grateful. “All that power, all at once?”

“I don’t know. A bit of a rush, I guess, but one _hell_ of a downer after.” He put a hand across his mouth in surprise. The word burned like ashes on his tongue. “I’m… I am so sorry, I… I don’t know what came over me just then.”

“Must have been something.” Sandalphon smiled crookedly as he stepped back. He twiddled with his tie clip, eyes bright with excitement. “Is the exile dangerous?”

“He was with Aziraphale and the former Antichrist, somehow. I couldn’t sense the Stone.”

“Must still be with the demon.” 

Gabriel stretched out his right hand over the torch. In drops of red and gold, the fire gathered in his palm and then poured out between his fingers. When his hand was empty, he dropped it and sighed. Still his body seemed to buzz.

When they returned, Uriel was making a few adjustments to the camps on the map. She and Michael glanced up and both looked sympathetic. 

“Will you be ready for ground exercises in a few days, Gabriel?” Uriel asked. 

“I’d save that question for the sparrows,” Gabriel tried to laugh. 

“Up until now they’ve only _studied_ war,” said Michael more seriously. “No doubt it will be hard on them.”

“All they have to do is shake off their old habits,” said Uriel, “and they’ll be a force to be reckoned with against any mortals.”

“Or _immortals_ ,” added Sandalphon. 

Michael glanced upwards towards the Throne, but the cloud cover of the Veil rippled as quiescent as always. “Either way,” he said, “it’ll be over soon enough.”

* * *

**C** rowley and Aziraphale arrived at the bookshop just as the Bentley returned to its preferred parking space to take them elsewhere. They kept their drinking to a minimum that night, but there was still wine to be had at Crowley’s flat. They had xeroxed Azazel’s notes and sent the copy home with Anathema. When they arrived at the Mayfaire building, these and the Stone were placed in the safe, but Crowley dug out a bit of chalk to make adjustments to the container before locking them in.

“It’s not from Job,” he said, some time after, once they had changed into nightgowns and settled themselves in at the kitchen island. Anathema had brought them another cake to take home and they each had a slice because no amount of stress would keep them from fresh strawberries and wine. 

“What isn’t?” asked Aziraphale, dabbing his lips with his napkin. 

“The combination. I used the human dating system, so it’s easy to miss.”

Aziraphale thought about this, then brightened and smiled soft as an autumn sunbeam. “Oh, Crowley, how could I forget the day we met?”

“I haven’t.”

Still smiling warmly, Aziraphale stood up to fetch the kettle for tea, but Crowley stopped him on the way by taking his hand. Aziraphale settled on wrapping his arms about Crowley’s shoulders and resting his chin on that fire-red hair. 

“It’s been a day,” Aziraphale sighed.

“A day full of bastards, angel, and you’re still the only one worth knowing.”

Crowley felt Aziraphale smile again at that. 

“I suppose we’ll need to figure out what to do next.”

Crowley took one hand again, gave it a kiss, and rolled his golden eyes up to meet Aziraphale’s. “Tonight there’s cake, angel,” he insisted. “We’ll figure out what to do next in the morning and not a moment sooner.”

“You’re quite right.”

“I know I am. Heaven’ll be collecting their wits for a little while yet.”

* * *

**A** ngels do not study chaos. 

They talk about it though. 

Not as much as they do about the Fall, but if you asked, they wouldn’t be able to help themselves. The slaying of Leviathan had been an _ordeal_. Most angels believe that the Almighty in Her infinite wisdom had felt a team-building exercise was in order—and that the feedback meeting that followed should have been worthy of an epic ballad. 

When angels talk about chaos, they won’t mention anything so fragile as butterflies. They’ll talk about eyes that shot beams of light, bright like neutron suns. They’ll speak of a tail that swept stars from the sky. They’ll talk about a Chaos with a capital “C”—a Chaos with scales and very large teeth. A few optimists will tell you how every angel rallied to aid the fight: fighters and forgers alike, healers and engineers, charioteers and trumpeters—the whole array of the heavenly hosts.

They won’t mention Lucifer on principle—no matter how impressive he was back then, with his silvered sword and seven-star crown. Nor will they recall how his brother followed close behind him, as always was the case back then. 

They will tell you how Gabriel led the charge that finally pinned the beast down, and how the star-crowned prince took the beast’s head. A bit embarrassed by letting their emotions carry them away, they might next detail how Raphael and his healers tended the wounded, closing lacerations and soothing broken wings with new songs. They might whisper how his brother hung the stars back in place. They won’t name the twin, of course. No one names the damned even if they do remember. But it would be too beautiful not to mention.

Angels do not study chaos. If they did, they would ask questions. Eventually, someone would ask what happens to monsters when they die. 

* * *

**T** he devil has in the past been called the Evil One, Destroyer of Worlds, and Ruler of the Bottomless Pit. But he has destroyed no worlds, and there are nine levels in Hell—The bottom level being quite apparent. It is no secret the devil takes liberty with titles. 

The true owner of those titles doesn’t care for epithets. 

Imagine a field that goes on to the horizon in all directions. It is almost quiet. But in one place something is smashing through, something playful, leaping in and out of pools of primordial water. Its joyful baying would give dolphins nightmares. It rolls and frolics with not a care out in the world, because it isn’t in the world anymore. It scratches its scaley back on broken eggshells.

You would think it small, if you had nothing to compare it to, so the eggshells must be further examined. There might be trillions of them, if they can ever be counted, and the diameter of their concave vacuums are light-eons wide. They’ve lost their color because they’ve lost their light. By their thickness, they once enclosed a great weight—now obliterated. The violence of their edges suggests a fall from a great height. 

The first problem of creating is the _order_ of creation, the structure. How do you start? What comes next? How do you finish? Not all structures survive the building process. One structure might be the scaffold of the next. Survival is not its purpose. Each scaffold is eventually torn down and discarded. Like dinner scraps, they are thrown to what lurks under the table.

Behold, Leviathan.

You could fancy she’s part-snake and part-crocodile, this great and plesiosaur-like being, but she is far more impressive than either. Leviathan’s eyes outshine stars. Her teeth shred galaxies. Her scales gleam like onyx, not a one out of place. When Leviathan rolls over, existence trembles.

Leviathan thinks the thousands-year-old eggs of broken worlds are delicious.

Leviathan thinks playing catch with them is fun.

When she sleeps, Leviathan dreams of the thrill of new worlds, how the Almighty in frustration would fling another scaffold down, how at times it would bounce, and how Leviathan, speeding after it, beating her fins and thrashing her scaley belly, would throw herself forward at a galloping crawl to catch it. Leviathan’s movement could be thought of as thunderous—except thunder here is an ant’s sneeze.

Sometimes they play a game. The Creator of Worlds tosses one cracked orb in an arc like a reverse asymptote. Leviathan will catch it and proudly bring it back, great tail held high with a triumphant little crook on the end.

Sometimes Leviathan has nightmares about another time. And about the angels, and their fiery swords. Sometimes the Creator sits among the ruins and strokes Leviathan’s nose and tail, quieting these fears. Then She eyes a single gap in a wall of star-tearing teeth and looks up at the one light in the sky, like a distant star, the pale blue dot of the only world that remains.


	14. Chapter the Fourteenth - Crucible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley was mistaken about how long the collecting of wits would take, but at heart he always had been an optimist._
> 
> **CW/TW:** war, executions of pows, mention of starvation and refugee internment, allusions to nuclear testing, brief suicidal thoughts under stress

* * *

**C** rowley was mistaken about how long the collecting of wits would take, but at heart he always had been an optimist. Still, the three of them wasted no time. Anathema’s network began fervid research, Crowley stocked up on chalk, and Aziraphale began calculations using what he knew of Heaven’s actuary sciences. This last required thorough knowledge of an abacus, which he had.

One morning, Aziraphale’s studies brought him to the library books again, and he’d passed the page in the second edition where Raphael’s note was set, still creased and unread, between the pages. Standing up from the couch in Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale strolled past the kitchen and just through the office door.

Crowley was perched, not on his throne, but on a small stool on the floor in one corner, hovering like a gargoyle with dusty fingers over the Stone in its web, and waving his hand this way and that, to change the spectrum of a fist-sized star. He moved two fingers one way and the color slid to a lovely ice blue. A stream of delicate gasses drifted around it like shreds of silk.

Aziraphale held his breath and admired it, his heart suddenly aching but full. He held the book to his chest, and decided it could wait, just a little longer. 

Despite his stillness, Crowley’s eyes snapped up a moment later. “Something the matter, angel?” he asked worriedly. As he spoke, one long hand reached out as if on reflex, and cupped the small star in his palm, as if to stop its fall. 

“No,” said Aziraphale, and smiled despite his worries. “It looks lovely.”

“Won’t stop archangels though. And where would I put it?”

“We could use more light in the den.”

“Mmph,” Crowley’s pencil-line eyebrows arched. He seemed to warm to the thought, his fingers dancing almost unconsciously in the air to keep the tiny astra afloat. Aziraphale did not point out that Azazel had recommended doing only things a human would do with the Stone. He knew most of Crowley’s moods, and this was too delicate a one for criticism. 

“I’ll start breakfast, shall I?”

“Y’alright.”

Aziraphale softly closed the office door and did just that. Calculating when The End (Part Two) would occur was clearly more important than the letter anway, especially given the AM broadcasts at dawn.

* * *

**M** ichael was tired. Not from nightmares though.

Hell, that is, Lord Beelzebub, had called late _[Author’s note: because, apparently, good can never sleep_ either _]_. 

The work of Uriel and Sandalphon was backfiring, they said. Fear of the so-called rioters, combined with strained economies, were making certain soulless governments consider _reform_ . Clearly the angels were just too good at being _good_. 

Michael’s first impulse had been to accuse the other prince of having a joke—in _very_ poor taste—but Michael wasn’t impulsive, and so instead he’d icily asked for details. Somehow, explained the Lord of the Flies, the humans had managed to use Wrath and Greed to make _evil_ people think about doing _good_. Something had to be done. Maybe adding Sloth or Envy to the mix. Certainly they needed to interfere with PR if nothing else. 

The idea was not addressed by any damnation policy, and Michael was sure of it, even if he couldn’t find either of his missing treatises on the subject. It was downright impossible. Humans did either good or evil. They couldn’t make good out of _both_.

In the end, Beelzebub had suggested Michael hand the matter over to Hell, and Michael had had to agree. Just to ensure it wasn’t even latent ethereal influence, Michael had expedited the transfer paperwork under the always helpful (and helpfully vague) provision of “temptation for the proving of the saints.” Michael hadn’t trusted any but himself to file this paperwork, and so the night had passed about as well as another bad dream. 

He didn’t doubt. Angels did _not_ doubt. 

He’d finished an hour before sunrise. But an hour later, he still hadn’t slept.

It was morning now, Eden Standard Time, and despite his fatigue, Michael strode with Gabriel before sparrow-winged ranks of soldiers. It was a peaceful scene, despite the swords and spears and halberds. The crystal lake glittered behind them and the distant Throne was shrouded in clouds and familiar silence. Michael let his gaze sweep over the nervous lines of angels while Gabriel, who was in charge of day-to-day military matters, walked a step behind, wide awake and beaming. 

Gabriel was saying, “You sparrows sorely lack experience facing an enemy on the ground. The humans outnumber us, thousands to one. Not to mention”—He chuckled—“you have zero experience with brimstone evasion.”

“We’ll save that for later on,” said Michael seriously, as a few eyes silvered in fear. “But you’ll be expected to keep your wings in today, in practice. Obey your captain’s orders. Move forward, never back.”

“Furthermore,” said Gabriel at Michael’s nod, “you’ll be practicing working alongside our new allies. Of course, we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but so long as they’re willing to put aside the past for the greater good, everyone is expected to keep the peace.”

“Don’t be careless,” Michael added. “This is a mission of deliverance.”

He and Gabriel stopped at the center line with their backs to the Throne. Michael’s eyes wandered to a soldier he’d become used to picking out of the ranks. He noted the green eyes had paled in concern. But not fear. 

Good.

* * *

**B** eelzebub did not often give speeches, but internal memos got lost, and Hell’s communication upgrades were spotty at best. _[Author’s note: The aviary hadn’t even upgraded to carrier pigeon.]_

Fortunately, unlike Heaven, the prince had only two demons to brief about that day’s “training exercise.”

Unfortunately, one was Legion.

The prince called both together _[Author’s note: a very loose term in Legion’s case]_ atop the stark northern heights that overlooked Pandemonium. Here the winds moaned above the sunless plateaus, full of the tormented souls of sluggards powerlessly adrift. 

Beelzebub explained, “Lord Gabriel is going to pay a visit to Asia. Lords Abaddon and Mammon will join him. You’ll be jumping across the pond with Prince Michael.” 

All ten thousand of Legion had come clad in armor spoiled from battles past. He saluted smartly and bits of him clanked.

“Will do, your disgrace—not to worry—We’ve been training for this—since the last war.”

“Following the battle, there’ll be a post-conflict debriefing for everyone,” Beelzebub added. They didn’t try to follow which of him was speaking. “Stay among the foot soldiers and… ingratiate yourselves.”

“Thank you, your lowness—so very much—very excited about going topside—That’s me, just a social butterfly,” another few of them said.

The other demon also stood at attention, but only so much as something without legs ever stood. 

Hell’s Dark Council generally stays in the Abyss _[Author’s note:_ Something _has to stare back.]_ But today was a day to impress, and this demon lord had volunteered at the first rumor.

Lord Amalek hadn’t been out of his favorite shape in centuries, even that time he’d gone on holiday with War and Pollution to the Marshall Islands. He looked like a sick cloud, and he always shone a hazy, headache-inducing shade of white that put every color off. His aura rippled with silent screams. 

Beelzebub resisted the visceral urge to shout over what was, technically, not sound. “Lord Amalek,” they said, “I trust you’ll be on your worst behavior?”

Static burst from the miasma. It resolved itself into, “SSCertainly, my prinssssce.” Amalek conveyed a bow by retracting slightly. Pale pinprick eyes manifested like drifters in its already pale void. “I ssssshall be only helpful to our alliesssss.”

“Our King wants me to remind you that the Prince of Heaven must be assured of our loyalty and gratitude.” 

“If our lord commandsss it”—Again, the strange bow—“I am ever eager to dessceive.”

* * *

**T** here were two targets. One would not make it into most public screenings for even mature audiences, but the other lay just past a border on the North American continent. 

The battlefield rolled and dipped in pathetically shallow trenches, offering little in the form of cover but for the occasional bush or rock. The angelic and demonic forces headed for the far end, toward a dusty valley half a mile away. At the far end, shimmering in the heat, stood the severe shape of a military compound.

The angels and demons were equally numbered against their enemies but very much outgunned. Crossing the valley on foot and in vehicles were soldiers, some with heavy artillery and all with far more bullets than there were immortals to shoot at. Helicopters roared overhead just a half hour in. These soldiers might never have fought winged enemies before, but they had never been much into asking questions either, or losing. The bullets hadn’t stopped since mid-morning. 

For not the first time, Jaelle tried not to think about how coming down so far from their target had left them open to attack. She tried not to think about how it might feel to get shot—or to die. Angels shared their dreams in joy or in mourning, but what would it be like for a thousand angels to share a dream like this?

Presently, she and Matarael threw themselves to the ground as more bullets ripped overhead. They propped up their shields and hunkered down behind them. 

Matarael’s feet skittered back as a volley of shots nearly caught his heel. “Do they ever run out of bullets?” he asked.

“Let’s not talk right now, Mat.”

“Have you seen Captain Ariya?”

“Kinda busy, Mat.”

“Take cover, you two!”

They saw the grenade before the demon who lobbed it, and flattened themselves under their shields as that demon, one of Legion, dropped beside them and covered his head. 

The other side of the rise exploded. 

There were instantly fewer bullets.

“Woo!” The demon grinned, looking up as the dust settled. Dirt caked his face, but his grin was bright. He wore a helmet with two holes cut from the top for horn-related reasons. 

“Um, thanks,” said Jaelle. 

“No trouble at all.” The demon shook dust off his oiled trenchcoat. “We’ve got your back.”

Together, the three hurried to the next pitiful shelter just before another onslaught began. It was a stone barely big enough to crouch behind, standing at the top of a slope. Matarael pressed his back against the rock and fumbled his spear. His armor clanked everytime he moved, though he’d fastened the fittings as tight as they’d pull. Watching him, the demon laughed.

“Looks like you still need to grow into your britches, junior.”

“Very funny,” said Matarael.

“What’s a few jokes between friends?” The demon pulled another grenade from a strap and took the pin in his teeth. With a quick pull, he threw the pinecone-like device almost nonchalantly over one shoulder. It rolled down the little hill and exploded. 

Jaelle heard an instant of screams. “What was that?!”

“Saw ’em coming as we ran. Not our colors.”

Matarael immediately remarked, “But what are _your_ colors?”

“What, this?” The demon wore something that was part-kevlar and part chainmail.

“It’s hardly a ‘uniform.’”

They ducked as gunfire rattled again. 

“Lost most of our threads in the Fall,” said the demon. “We pillage a bit of everything. Waste not—”

Another grenade flew and the angels yelped as something exploded.

“—want not. Got this one off a cavalryman.” 

“No kidding,” said Matarael, and swallowed hard.

Jaelle was counting her breaths. At three, she’d calmed enough to ask, “What was your name again?”

“We’re Legion.”

“I mean, _your_ name.”

“Legion.” The demon stuck out a hand. “Though my friends call me Eric. Guess we’re friends now.”

“Prince’s orders,” muttered Matarael.

“Mat, be kind,” said Jaelle. She shook the hand gingerly. Its nails were painted a glittery black. “Nice to meet you, Eric. I’m Jaelle. This is—”

“Mat.”

“—and you seem to know battles.”

“Most fun I’ve had all century.”

“Where’s our air support?” asked Matarael.

“Probably avoiding theirs,” said Legion-also-known-as-Eric.

They all cowered as a pair of helicopters roared overhead. Artillery peppered the desert in machine gunfire. Jaelle pushed herself and her companions against the stone.

“At least their aim is bad,” said Matarael, just as she was breathing out thanks to Heaven.

“Shoddy sites—product of Sloth.” Legion grinned. “Peppered in a bit of Wrath—keeps the shooter from thinking clearly—but, just to warn you, the guns will get bigger.”

Jaelle tried to steel her nerves, but she could hear screams as the helicopter continued its assault on the fields behind her. Forward. How were they supposed to move forward? “What is the point of any of this?” she muttered loudly.

“Search me,” said Legion unhelpfully.

“Jaelle, it’s orders,” said Matarael.

“Orders I need to understand to follow, otherwise what’s the point?”

Matarael’s jaw went slack and Legion’s smile burst with delight.

Jaelle realized she’d added certain _unangelic_ adjectives to her question and clapped a hand across her mouth. She said, “I am _so_ sorry. I have this bad habit of… Sorry.” 

Legion laughed at them both. He shouted over the next barrage of gunfire. “I like you, Jaelle! And here I thought angels were boring!”

Jaelle’s face turned red as her eyes grayed in embarrassment. 

“Look, don’t worry about it. Sometimes we all just need a day topside, er, bottom-side? I dunno.” Legion said. “Fresh air, bit of exercise. I think it’s doing all of me good—or something.”

“Legi—I mean, Eric—how do we move forward?” asked Jaelle. 

“Can you guys make your swords into guns?”

“We haven’t learned how to do that yet.”

“And they sent you into battle?”

“Yes,” said Jaelle and Matarael at once. 

“We don’t ask questions,” Jaelle added.

“But you were doing it so colorfully just now.” Legion held up his hands quickly. “Sorry, sorry, I know I’m not helping. Habit you know, seeding doubt and all. I’m sure your beneficent supervisors have a plan.”

“What about yours?”

“I don’t have any beneficent supervisors. Anyway, most of our leadership’s with Lord Gabriel today, dealing with some kind of—”

The air _boomed_ and a sudden cloud cover rumbled with thunder. In a flash like a knife, lightning sliced one helicopter in two. Jaelle forgot to breathe as both smoldering halves of the vehicle spiraled into a pod of demons and angels. 

“No!” she shouted, and leapt to her feet, but the lightning crashed onward towards the enemy compound.

“You’re a standing target,” called Legion.

Jaelle threw her shield onto her shoulder. “I’m going back!” 

“You can’t. Jaelle, orders are—”

But Jaelle ran without waiting. Soon Matarael was following. Legion jogged along after them, still smiling like a picnic. 

Jaelle didn’t curse again. She prayed. 

“Look out!” Five paces from the wreck, Matarael threw all three of them down as the ruined helicopter belched a second explosion of red-black fire. It was acrid and Jaelle’s eyes teared up as she went half blind from the smoke. 

“Mat…” Jaelle broke into coughs again, pulled him close to shout in his ear. “Can you get the soldiers out of that smoke?”

Matarael was coughing too hard to answer, but he nodded. Jaelle pushed through the wave of heat toward the helicopter, then hacked at the hull until her sword stuck, swallowed as her throat closed against the smoke. Bracing a foot on the hot metal, she leveraged back the plating and tried not to breathe as she reached inside. 

Together, they dragged several bodies to the scant safety behind the wreckage. 

“Oh, look, it’s one of me,” said Legion. He slapped another self on both cheeks. “Wakey, wakey, chocolate cakey.”

The other Legion, who wore equally mismatched attire, opened his eyes, then grinned. “Oh, hello, Eric.”

“A good day to you, Eric, how’s the war?”

“Oh, we’ve seen worse, haven’t we, Eric?”

Using the wreck as cover, Jaelle spread her wings over a lain-out human pilot. The woman squinted up at her, then at the wings, then at the black clouds above.

“Wh… what are you?” She shut her eyes again and moaned.

“Hey, stay awake, okay?” said Jaelle. She waved her hand over the worst of the wounds. “You’re going to be okay, but you need to give up being a soldier, at least this kind, alright? It’s the opposite of what you wanted to be as a kid, and you know it.”

The woman stared, then flinched as the lacerations on her face mended. “But how did you know that? And how…? I mean, I guess, well, yes, sir.”

“I’m no one,” said Jaelle, and dove back into the debris. She helped Matarael pull an angel from under the wreck. After they’d laid him out at the end of the line, they worked off his helmet. Jaelle stood back in shock. 

“Captain Ariya?”

Quickly, Jaelle arched her wings over the unconscious angel. The first Legion looked up warily and grabbed a soldier’s gun. He knelt and took aim across the field. 

“I got this, but can you keep your wings down?” 

“I can’t. He’s hurt.”

“Your funeral and paperwork,” Legion shrugged.

A barrage of gunfire grazed the primaries of Jaelle’s right wing and she yelped. The next wave pinged against the smouldering metal and ricocheted, taking off one of Legion’s fingers.

“Hey!”.

“Are you alright?” asked Matarael.

Legion shrugged. “At least it’s not one of the most important ones.” He stood to make sure the gunners knew exactly which fingers he still had, then threw himself to one side against the wreck. 

Ariya’s armor was so pummeled, it had done the opposite of its job. Jaelle struggled with its buckles to pull it off. The captain’s breaths came short and sharp, but his eyes were open. Their color swirled silver and sickly yellow, tracking, then squinting, as if he couldn’t see well. “What happened?” 

“It’s okay, Captain.”

“Jaelle? I can’t see… anything.” 

“You’re going to be okay.”

“You know, lying is my job,” said Legion in a false whisper. 

“ _He will be okay_ ,” said Jaelle.

“Ooh, that gave me tingles.”

Jaelle put her anger away and stood up. From here she could clearly see the massacre their advance had left behind. Not just mortal soldiers, but angels and demons alike, all caught by gunfire and explosives.

Jaelle swallowed hard as her stomach wrenched. Prince Michael was used to seeing these things, wasn’t he? Maybe all soldiers were. Why was she always such a bad soldier?

“You’re a standing target,” said Legion. He reloaded the gun with miracle ammunition. Where he fired shots, they stuck, then exploded.

Before Jaelle could argue, she caught sight of something crossing the valley, then something else, half a dozen somethings, all rolling towards them. They would have made her think of turtles, except she was certain they were a hundred times bigger and faster. And more deadly.

Matarael laid out the last of the injured behind the wreck. “Jaelle, we should move on.”

“Those are tanks,” said Jaelle.

“And they’re in front of us,” said Legion cheerfully.

“Right, we…” She glanced down at Ariya, looking for better orders, but the captain didn’t move. Jaelle forgot what she was going to say. In six thousand years she’d never gotten used to death. 

“Jaelle!” Matarael shouted.

Jaelle ducked automatically, felt bullets dent her shield. She clutched at the ground and screamed. 

_It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay…_ , she told herself, clenching her fists as they started to shake. She’d dropped her sword. She wasn’t supposed to do that. _He’ll be okay. He’s not here, but he’s home. Isn’t it better to be home?_

Without looking up, Jaelle fumbled for her sword, more and more frantic that she couldn’t find it. She had a horrible thought then, that maybe it would be better if she took a trip home herself before the bullets turned to mortars. It might only hurt for a moment, right? Wasn’t that what everyone said? A bullet between the eyes maybe. Better than a mortar shell blowing you to pieces later. 

But, no. It wouldn’t feel right. Wouldn’t _be_ right. What if someone needed her? Like Mat, or Eric? And what about the ones who needed all of them? 

Something went _clank_. Matarael planted his shield between them both and the enemy fire. When she looked up, he was holding out her sword. “Jaelle, did Ariya leave any orders?”

“No,” Jaelle glanced back at Ariya’s unmoving form. “I guess we move forward.”

Matarael closed his eyes. Jaelle saw him visibly calming himself. She wondered if he was having the same thoughts she had.

“We should do what we can,” she said firmly.

“Right.” 

“Exactly.” She took the sword. 

Together with Legion they ran for the sheltering stone and dove behind it. Jaelle looked left, then right. There was no cover left beyond that rock, just the final dip in the earth where the ground sank. Around the three of them, squads of angels made slow headway across the battlefield. Many had demons shadowing them, each better equipped than they and, Jaelle decided now, better dressed, too. Every angel shone like a beacon, and a beacon was an easy target.

“So,” said Legion. “ _Tanks_. You have any experience fighting tanks?”

“No, but I read quite a bit.”

“Splendid!” said Legion. “Your books say anything about iron-clad _tanks_?” 

“Maybe iron-clad chariots.” Jaelle felt an idea spark. “And rain.” She stared at the dusty bowl a moment longer, then turned quickly to Matarael. “Mat…?” she asked.

“What?”

“Can you make it rain? So that the ground turns to mud, like _deep_ mud?”

“I just do light showers.”

“But what if you did light showers _a lot_ …”

Light dawned blue in her friend’s eyes. “Yeah, right. Well, once the storm clouds pass. Don’t want to cramp Lord Sandalphon’s style.”

Jaelle asked, “Eric, do you have a radio? The captains will need to know…” 

The demon reached to his belt and yanked free a blocky radio mic on a coil of wire. He hit its switch, and said, “Dark Force One, this is Dark Force One, do you copy, Dark Force One? Over.”

A voice identical to the demon’s cracked back through the radio. “ _Dark Force One, this is Dark Force One. We copy. Over._ ”

“Things are about to get wet, Dark Force One. We recommend galoshes, if you could pass word on to our allies to move out of the valley. Over.”

“ _Copy that, Dark Force One. Over_.”

“Anything else, your glory?” Legion asked Jaelle.

“Don’t say that. I’m no one. Just—” Jaelle shook her head. She shouldn’t waste time. “Just tell them to get to higher ground if it won’t be too much trouble.”

“Dark Force One to Dark Force One, please tell our allies to get to higher ground or there will be trouble, over.”

“That’s not what I sa—”

“ _Roger that, Dark Force One. Permission requested to say so dramatically, over_.”

“Don’t, plea—”

“Permission granted, over.” Legion glanced at Jaelle. “Anything else, Captain No One?”

Jaelle decided there was no time for frustration. “Is there a way to draw the rest of the enemy into the valley?” she asked.

“I suppose, if they think they’re winning…”

“Then tell the demons and angels to pull back.”

“What?” asked Matarael. “Jaelle, our orders are to move _forward_.”

“And we will, once we move back.”

“Jaelle, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

But Legion had already clicked the radio. “Dark Force One, this is Dark Force One. Tell our allies to make a temporary, tactical retreat to the southern rise before the final advance. Over.”

Legion covered the mouthpiece for a moment. “It’s all about phrasing,” he told Matarael with a grin, before the speaker crackled again.

“ _Roger, Dark Force One. We are taking heavy fire. Over._ ”

Legion’s grin was its widest yet. “Then send out the locusts, Dark Force One. Over.”

“ _Roger, Dark Force One. Dark Force One is informed. Keep your heads down for locusts. Over._ ”

“Locusts?” echoed Matarael. “You have locusts?”

“No, but you do,” said Legion.

They ducked as the deafening rattle of a million insect wings crashed overhead. 

“That is so cool,” the demon giggled as the swarm soared onward. He was practically wiggling with glee. “I’ve always wanted an actual swarm of locusts. Working with you angels is amazing. We get to borrow so many fun toys.”

“Um, thanks,” said Jaelle. “Mat?”

Matarael shut his eyes and calmed his breathing. A moment later, he opened them. They shone silver, not the color of fear but a powerful platinum color that caught rainbows. He gestured upward and suddenly rain crashed down in equally bright silver sheets, shining on the heels of the swarm.

Jaelle grinned despite herself, felt her hope rekindle for the first time that day. “How long can you keep it up, Mat?”

“It’s my area,” said Mat, a smile peeking at one corner of his lips as he concentrated. “How long do you need?”

“Push it north only when everyone’s ready, just to the foot of that hill before the compound for now. Eric, can you confirm when everyone’s out?”

The demon checked with the selves on the radio. 

“I’m out. And your sparrows, sunshine?” laughed Legion. 

“What? Oh, they’re not mine.”

“They’re out,” Matarael reported, peering across the valley with his shining eyes.

“Mat!”

“Well, if they’re not yours right now and Ariya is gone, whose are they?” asked Mat.

“G-d’s,” said Jaelle.

“She’s got a point,” Legion said with a laugh. “I like you, Captain No One. I really do.”

* * *

**W** ithin the compound were barracks, workhouses, and half a dozen hangers for large craft. One hanger was not used for vehicles. Now and then, it had to be aired out. The doors had been opened with the approach of the storm. 

There was a garden out front. For approved photojournalists. 

While Jaelle, Legion, and the other angels crossed the battlefield, the compound stood above it all. If the soldiers at their posts seemed more calm than merited the situation, it was because people who think they’re untouchable forget how to flinch. 

Those watching the valley paid no mind to the rising mist at the foot of the hill, even when it gathered into a fog, bristling strangely like the hazy silhouette of an army. The brighter points of Amalek’s eyes winked in and out of it, sometimes just the usual pair, sometimes many more. But even this the humans dismissed as a trick of the light.

Then Amalek snarled. And advanced. 

The guards at the gatehouse and towers frowned a little. Unsure what else to do, they shouted warnings, then orders, for him to stop, and raised their rifles.

Instead the demon lifted like a building wave, roaring his inaudible scream until the soldiers dropped their guns and pressed their hands uselessly to their ears. Immediately, Amalek pushed in and through the gatehouse, scrubbing it out like a pipe-cleaner. Another part of him climbed the gates, and the fence, fraying on the barbed wire like wool. 

And then he was through, and behind him nothing was left but the bodies. Amalek’s cloud bristled anew with chain-linked fencing, barbs strung on wire, and the muzzles of rifles—as if everything behind had lost a ghost.

In the courtyard, the few soldiers standing their ground started to feel less than untouchable. Some recovered their weapons despite the horrible nothing that bruised their ears. A few even managed to fire them. 

Amalek’s miasmic mass simply absorbed the bullets. Then there was silence, just before he bristled again and shot back in turn. 

Some soldiers ran. Some didn’t. They all died.

A siren began to wail from the watchtower. 

With a hiss of annoyance, Amalek slithered up the base of it. As its red lights whirled, he crashed through windows and out again. The whirling lights stopped and the sirens slurred.

The alarm had been sounded though. Reinforcements scrambled from their benches in the mess hall or out of their beds in the barracks. Satisfied, the demon spilled towards the hanger with the garden. 

Lightning crashed into his path. 

As the glare and ozone cleared, Michael stood up, wings bright as a snow-white banner. Amalek curbed his hunting zeal and retracted in a bow. As a courtesy, he lowered the borrowed hackles.

“Wrong way, Lord Amalek,” said Michael.

“How now, highnessssss?” the demon hissed. His voice flossed the air with knives. “I have thingsss under control.”

“Leave the captives.”

The demon lord curled upright as if looking over the angel’s shoulder. “Ssshould jussssst put them all out of their misssssery, if you asssssk me.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Across the yard, more soldiers spilled from the mess hall. They piled into jeeps and trucks. A mounted machine gun was aimed and fired. Michael swung his sword as someone might swat a fly, and the shots went wide. Those that passed him were buried in Amalek’s haze and achieved nothing but to lend him new edges. 

Michael leaned on the sword and said, as if they hadn’t been interrupted, “We’re here to save prisoners, your disgrace.”

Amalek retracted, then expanded again, and said, “Asssss you like, your highnessssss.” 

Once again, the demon flowed towards the soldiers, like dust rolls off a new star, accelerating under its own weight. He rose like a piling wave and then fell, and the alarmed screams of humans and the smashing of their war machines were smothered. 

As the ever-dissonant Amalek moved away, Michael caught, on the edge of hearing, the sound of a blade sliding along a whetstone. If sound had a temperature, this one would have been measured in negative kelvins. Michael was mildly surprised. Death was, of course, anywhere there was life. Special appearances were rare on Azrael’s part, but in the past few weeks there’d already been two.

Even so, that wasn’t Michael’s department. (No one quite remembered which department Death belonged to.) He didn’t think too long on it, only faced the hanger again. Inside stood a grid of cells made from chain-link fencing. On the stained floor in each cell lay ratty bedding. The whole place had the look of a kennel gone to seed. The smell of one too: Mold and sweat, waste and illness. It was a prison, but also worse than one. Prisons had incentive to keep tenants alive.

At the sight of an angel, the imprisoned mortals cowered against the back of their cells. Michael recognized on them the signs of illness, starvation, bruises and wounds and chemical burns… He knew standard protocol was to miracle the shackles away. Drop the chains, throw open the doors, lead the captives free. But the waste and the wounds left him thinking no catharsis would be better than razing this place to the ground directly after. He took a step forward.

Warily, the prisoners reached for one another through the fences. Were they even afraid of their own deliverance? Michael wondered, looking into staring eyes wild and worn by sleepless nights. There was no hope, none at all. 

Maybe everything became fear when you were a prisoner. Maybe the only hope you had left was that things would just… end.

Michael clutched his chest at a sudden pain like he’d been stabbed. It drilled straight through and into his wings. It felt like a whole-body flinch. Quickly, he tore his gaze away and tried to regain his composure. What was this? This wasn’t how an angel was supposed to feel.

Lightning struck nearby. As the pavement smoldered, Sandalphon’s warding aura swelled across the courtyard.

“Michael, what is it?” he called, hurrying over, mace at the ready. “Are you alright?”

Michael realized he was on his knees. “Sandalphon?”

“Is there a change in orders?”

Michael was too distraught to hear the eagerness in his voice. He shook his head. “No.”

“Are you wounded?”

“I need… help me.” Michael reached up a hand. It was shaking. 

Sandalphon helped him up. “What now?”

In the presence of another, Michael’s composure was quickly returning. He opened all his eyes, and the unbridled disgust of sick orange broiled with angry red. “We end this,” he said coldly, “and then it never happens again.”

“Right,” said Sandalphon, though his gaze wavered, and he regripped his weapon. “I mean, not all of it, right? We need someone left to punish—”

“Take to the air and cut off deserters,” said Michael. 

“Are you _sure_ you’re all right?” asked Sandalphon, backing away despite himself.

“ _I’m always right._ ”

Sandalphon shot skyward. His impact on the storm loosed a roll of thunder. 

In the empty courtyard, Michael decided the fear was not his own. He was simply overwhelmed. He really shouldn’t have overreacted. This task needed compassion. Humans were such frail creatures. 

In a moment, he’d softened his light and shut the eyes on his wings and skin. Instead of looking out, he looked in, reached to his core, to the cool center that remembered glaciers and snowflakes. He remembered how to be an angel whose eyes were blue, and turned back to face the hanger and the people in need of deliverance. There were words for times like these. 

“Fear not. Your salvation draweth nigh.”

They were still afraid. Maybe they always would be. Michael couldn’t blame them. Wouldn’t. They all knew deep down this deliverance wasn’t freedom. Not really. 

_All I can give you is more time to be afraid._

* * *

**T** he rain filled the valley, gentle but unrelenting. The rushing water drowned out locusts and gunfire alike. Mounted guns refused to stand. Jeeps and tanks sank nose first. Doors and cockpits were thrown open as crews spilled out to escape the hungry earth. 

Once the flood had done its work, the rain tapered off and the angels advanced again, this time more emboldened. The escaping mortal soldiers turned to half-swim, half-run away. Some dragged the more stunned of their number with them. Many lost weapons and boots along the way. 

Meanwhile ten legions of locusts still circled the valley, now diving low, now swinging high, droning their threat against those who fled in any direction but directly towards the compound. 

At the top of the hill, the swollen fog of Amalek coiled around the hilltop like a serpent. Lightning struck from the thunderclouds in warning and each bolt short-circuited fences or set towers ablaze. The angels’ quarry staggered at the foot of the hill and looked backward, hedged in.

Then they threw their guns down in surrender.

* * *

**B** y the time Jaelle and the rest put up their swords, the lack of gunfire felt eerily quiet. Despite victory, the slope of the far hill was wrapped in fear and exhaustion. And still that sickening cloud hung over the shattered prison. 

With more (many more) of Legion’s help, angels and demons alike moved their injured from the battlefield to a triage at the foot of the hill. A handful of Raphael’s healers were among them. They came and went by a nearby holy circle, bearing the worst of the wounded back Home in cascades of rising light. A few went into the compound to tend the rescued.

“What now?” Legion asked Jaelle and Matarael.

Jaelle noticed more injured mortals to her left among the captured soldiers. Some lay still. Although it was not that certain stillness she’d feared, her chest clenched again. She waved down one of Myriad. 

“I don’t suppose you could spare someone to look over them?” she whispered.

Myriad looked bewildered. “Why?”

Jaelle couldn’t understand the question. “Why not?” she replied. “They probably never knew prisoners of war could receive mercy. It might change them.” 

Myriad considered this, then smiled warmly. “I see. It’s only, the prince made no mention.”

“But there’s nothing against it?”

“I suppose not.” With another smile, the host angel hurried away to the rest of the healers. Jaelle noticed Legion’s jaw had gone slack.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“Who’s… who?”

“That?” Legion said, and pointed. “And there, too, and… there.”

“Oh, um, she’s Myriad,” said Jaelle. “She does a bit of everything.”

“She’s _beautiful_.”

“Do demons like beautiful things?” asked Matarael, bewildered.

Jaelle dug an elbow into his ribs and whispered, “People like what they like, Mat. Be nice.”

Legion seemed not to notice either of them. Instead, he sighed wistfully.

Jaelle let her wings vanish into the ether and looked across the transformed desert. Bits of smoldering ruin in the water sat like smudges on a mirror. She felt someone take her hand, realized it was Matarael and felt her chest unclench. 

“It’s over at least.” Jaelle swung his hand in hers. “Thanks, Mat.”

“Didn’t know I had it in me.” He looked up at the compound where the strange fog still coiled. “What is that thing?”

“That’s Lord Amalek,” said Legion, breaking off his pining to frown with visible discomfort. “Not that I’m jealous, but he’s on the Dark Council.”

“What’s he trying to look like?” asked Matarael.

“I think it’s sorta like… a metaphor.” The demon cringed. “It’s his favorite shape.”

The cloud of terror parted and Michael stepped out, wings bright against the haze. The prince’s face was stone-stern. Many angels stood up taller, heartened by his arrival.

“The prisoners are freed,” Michael announced, which brought weary but sincere cheers from the mixed ranks. Jaelle could just make out the people huddled within the fence and looking wan and distressed at the smoldering ruin. There had to be at least five hundred of them.

Sandalphon landed in a bolt of lightning and waved a hand that made the clouds disperse. Overhead the clearing sky was red with evening. Sandalphon put up his mace and peered over the crowd. Jaelle swallowed as his eyes fell on her, but they shifted immediately to Matarael. Instinctively, she squeezed her friend’s hand. Sandalphon whispered something to the prince.

Michael looked frustrated, then tired. “Matarael,” he called. 

Matarael stiffened as a murmur swept across the ranks. Then he hurried up the hill. Jaelle followed closely without being asked. Legion, without a word of protest, followed them both. They all stopped and saluted.

“Yes, your grace?” asked Matarael.

“We advanced in a dry storm. Which captain told you to rain on the battlefield?”

“I, um… none, my prince.”

Michael and Sandalphon exchanged more quiet words. Jaelle felt her stomach twist. 

“Is that so?” asked Michael. “It was your own idea?”

“We had to stop the enemy somehow, your grace,” said Matarael, and added quickly, “With all due respect, when we lost Captain Ariya…”

“Your orders were to advance.”

“It was my idea, your grace.” Jaelle hurried forward. “We were in the thick of it. Matarael’s in charge of the spring rain and the thaw, so…”

“So you told him what to do?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“She saved my life, your grace,” added Legion, far more comfortable than either of the two angels were.

“Quite more than a hundred times,” added another of him nearby.

Amalek boiled, “Eric, do be sssssilent.”

“Silent as mice, sir,” said the demon quickly. 

“I don’t need excuses, soldier,” Michael told Jaelle. He looked across the valley, then asked, “What was your plan for the prisoners of war?”

“Plan?” Jaelle asked. She turned as if they might be talking about some other prisoners. She felt a strange movement behind her, more a presence than anything visible. It glided down the hill as soon as she turned back, evading even the corner of her eye. 

Every angel _knew_ of Azrael, but few had seen him. It wasn’t wise to try. 

Jaelle froze as her mind suddenly refused to think. “Your grace…?” She wasn’t sure how to finish the question, what answer she wanted, or needed.

Michael drew a deep breath. “This is a mission of mercy,” he said. “But do you think it’s wise to give warsome humans a chance to share what they’ve seen here before the final battle in the next few months?”

“But, we’re not fighting _all_ the humans. Some might repent.”

“And some will not.”

“But if they want peace…”

“You were not trained for peace, soldier.”

“No, but…”

“Amalek?”

The sick cloud contracted like a lion crouched to spring. 

“This is your area.”

Jaelle gasped as the demon shot forward. He sprang down the hill like a pack of wolves, jagged and bristling and barbed. Angel and demon alike scattered out of his away. As he reached the foot of the hill, instead of leaping at the enemy, he _spread_. There was a flash of sickeningly bright light, and screams from the prisoners in the same instant. They were short. 

Jaelle shouted something incomprehensible and ran forward, not knowing how she could fight without drawing a sword on an ally, but meaning to do something. Maybe an idea would come to her. Maybe…

Amalek spread onward, swallowing the lake, the stones, the tanks… 

Halfway down the hill, someone caught Jaelle’s arm. She pulled without looking, all the way to the edge of that devouring cloud, before a second hand joined the first and held her back, careful but firm, until she could only struggle uselessly, staring, as the shrubs around the edges of the lake caught the poison and started to die. 

“Let me go!” she shouted.

“And let you die?”

She had not expected that voice. 

As instantly as the flash of devastation had come, darkness swallowed it up and Amalek vanished, diving deep into the earth and throwing a sulfuric haze over everything. Every stalk and weed was gone. There were only corpses in between.

“No.” Jaelle gasped in horror. It had all been so fast. How had it happened so fast? “He can’t—!”

“He has.” Michael stepped between her and the horrible view of the desert, caught her eyes as only he could. 

Jaelle’s throat went dry. Her shouts crumbled into sobs. “ _Why?_ ”

The question echoed in sudden silence. Not a wing rustled. No one breathed. 

Then Sandalphon said, “Now, listen here, soldier, questions are—”

“It’s fine, Sandalphon,” Michael interrupted. “You and I had to learn, didn’t we?”

Matarael had hurried towards them, but he drew back at Sandalphon’s stern glare. Behind him Legion kicked at the dirt and shouldered his pilfered rifle. He bit a nail. 

Jaelle realized they weren’t the only ones watching her. She must look a sight, weeping uselessly, but more and more she found she didn’t care. She wanted to run, but she didn’t know where, so she sank to her knees, only distantly aware this meant mud on her clothes. She felt weak. Weaker than she had when Ariya died. After that horrible light the air felt darker somehow.

Michael didn’t let go, just sat on his heels.

“Listen, soldier,” he said. “Those people we freed, if you knew what they’d been through, if you _really_ knew, you’d understand. We owe them this mercy.”

“Love isn’t a debt though.”

Sandalphon scoffed. “You dare to lecture your prince?”

“It’s alright, Sandalphon,” said Michael. To Jaelle he said, “If you let yourself feel every moment of tragedy in this world, the grief will kill you a hundred times over.”

“You don’t know that.”

“After one hundred billion souls? Don’t be naive.” Michael stood up and looked to Matarael. “See to the wounded, you and the rest,” he said. “Now.”

Legion tugged Matarael’s arm until he reluctantly turned away. Then the rest of the armies of Heaven and Hell followed suit, hurrying as if in their unease they were desperate for something to do besides stare. But there were backwards glances, worried whispers. Jaelle heard her name among them. She wanted to hide.

Sandalphon still eyed her with disapproval. “After a public stunt like that, your grace, we ought to—”

“Sandalphon, see that the human prisoners are clothed and fed, then lead them safely home,” said Michael. 

“What?” Sandalphon’s wings flared in surprise. “Michael, isn’t it enough that we—?”

“Tell them the Almighty has been merciful,” said Michael, still looking at Jaelle. “And tell them that they should repent in these final days.”

“But there’s no time for… but they haven’t even…” Sandalphon hands clutched for a tie to adjust. “You highness, there most certainly isn’t time for childish—”

“You think my orders are childish?”

“No, your grace!”

“Good. And do not leave them at just any outpost, Sandalphon. Make certain they are _safe_.”

“Yes, your highness.” Sandalphon composed himself and strolled back into the compound. He looked back once, perplexed and uneasy. 

Jaelle’s cold fear dissolved into tremors. She tried to say something, but the weakness was getting worse. She realized the battle was catching up with her. The draining feeling in her hands and feet made her wonder if her soul had decided to leave its corporation. It happened to humans. A mortal body could die of shock, or strain, or grief. 

“It will be alright, Jaelle,” Michael said.

“Nothing is right.”

“We are.”

Jaelle’s whole world went dark as she lost consciousness.

* * *

**J** aelle woke up in the dark, realized she was inside somewhere. Then the wall moved and a cold night wind slithered across her bedroll. She realized she was in a small tent. 

Sitting up, she nursed a headache, then the day came flooding back and she wished she could sleep again. She remembered some mention that there’d be a debriefing when the other half of the army arrived. Earth was the only neutral place angels and demons could meet for that sort of thing, and that meant there were probably other tents pitched alongside hers.

She turned back the blankets, stood up, and stepped out into the camp. 

Outside, most of the tents were dark, but some had their doors turned back, with soldiers—demons and angels alike—moving among them. Here and there, dots of campfires glowed where circles of tired fighters had gathered. Jaelle could make out the dark but redundant shape of Legion among them, narrating something animated but too distant to hear. 

Her own tent had been pitched closest to the generals’ pavilion, a marquee with several of the walls rolled up to let in the night air. Pairs of demons and angels were standing guard at its entrances. Jaelle could see Michael and Uriel inside. Their wings were tucked back in the ether, their armor to one side, and both leaned over a map table lit by their own light, talking too quietly to be heard. 

Other dark presences were about, but in the night Jaelle could not have said who they were. She guessed at the direction they were coming from though. The call of hellhounds twisted in the wind and she shuddered, wondering what Lord Amalek could possibly have left behind. 

Suddenly Jaelle wanted nothing more than to find Matarael and let him tell her things could get better. Even if he didn’t know how, she appreciated how much he believed it. 

“Pssst! Guardian!”

Turning toward the pavilion, Jaelle saw one of Legion was beckoning fervently at a guardpost by a door. Beside him was one of Myriad, glittering in messenger’s silver. By their proximity, she guessed they had, up until that moment, been in close conversation.

As Jaelle approached, they both saluted. Jaelle recognized the fingers growing back on Legion’s hand and relaxed. 

“Eric,” she said, wincing at her sore throat. “How long was I out?”

The demon kept his voice down, but was chuckling through it, clearly in a good mood. “Couple of hours, Captain No One.” 

“It’s Jaelle, you know.”

“Captain Jaelle.” He still whispered. 

“No, not…” Jaelle glanced in through the tent, but neither archangel had noticed her approach. “Not that either.”

“No worries. All the big baddies left a while ago. Just waiting on a report from the ones, uh, cleaning up before we go.”

“I can’t wait,” said Jaelle, utterly honest.

“But you’re expected either way,” said Myriad quietly.

“Pardon?”

Eric shrugged and pulled his spear aside. Myriad nodded gently and Eric whispered, “You’re expected, by _his highness_.”

“Oh, um…. Thanks.” Jaelle said it to be polite. She did not feel particularly thankful. Her insides hollowed out in fear, embarrassment and, she’d admit only to herself, disgust. She took a few breaths, then swallowed past the rawness in her throat, before she slipped inside. 

Uriel was saying, “… starting to worry me. If you need my help with anything, Michael, I’d be happy to step in. You can’t do everything.”

“I do appreciate it. As soon as Gabriel’s back, we can talk about it.”

“In private?” Uriel spotted Jaelle and let Michael see her looking past the prince’s shoulder.

Michael followed Uriel’s gaze. When he saw Jaelle, he stood straighter and put away the fatigue in his shoulders with a shrug. To Uriel, he nodded. “Yes, Uriel, thank you. Anything else about the mission?”

“Only that I think Gabriel’s going to need a drink.”

“I’ll see what Duke Hastur wants and follow you.”

“Wash your hands when you get back,” said Uriel wryly. “I’ll bet he has fleas.”

Uriel gave Jaelle a cursory smile as she strode out. Michael beckoned next, and Jaelle took her place with a nervous salute.

The map on the table displayed a land with a new border penciled in. Where a walled city had stood smoked a burn like a sunspot. Michael put the last map markers in a box. 

“Soldier,” he greeted her shortly. “It’s been a long day.”

Unsure, Jaelle glanced back at the guard, then asked, “Did you want to see me, your grace?”

“Yes.”

Jaelle braced herself for a lecture. 

“How are you feeling?” asked Michael.

“What?” said Jaelle, surprised.

Michael shut his eyes and the tiredness crept out across his shoulders. He didn’t repeat himself.

“I’m sorry, your highness,” said Jaelle. 

“You keep apologizing.” Michael pushed away the map. He let his hand rest on its edge. He hadn’t opened his eyes. “What is it for this time?”

“It’s just, I didn’t… I couldn’t answer your question.”

“You think that would have changed things?”

“How can I know now?” asked Jaelle. “I just felt… I’m trying to have faith, but I’m also trying to have _hope_. Once humans die…” 

“I know, and I’m not angry,” said Michael. “You were born an angel of mercy, not of judgment.”

“Weren’t we all, your grace?”

“Yes. Even the demons were,” said Michael. “But one mortal’s judgment is another one’s mercy. An order keeps order. We are not an army of discord and confusion, soldier.”

Jaelle didn’t know how to answer, so she didn’t. She was surprised that a part of her understood, and she was angry at that part. She didn’t know what to do with that anger. It felt important but powerless. 

This was certainly not the lecture she’d expected.

Michael added, “I do worry that you take too much on yourself. Feelings are as real as the next thing, but they’re not always _right_.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m saying, one reason I’ve asked after you is that I’m worried about how you feel.”

“Oh,” said Jaelle in a small voice.

“What happened with the prisoners was not your fault,” said Michael. “You know that?”

“I… think so.”

“Circumstances dragged you in where you weren’t ready.”

“Ready for what, your grace?”

Michael tapped a finger on the table. He seemed to be deliberating. At last he said, “I’ve talked to Captain Ariya about you before, Jaelle.”

At the sound of her name, Jaelle felt a wash of inexplicable cold on her skin. “You… have?” 

“He’s said you’re headstrong, but that you never act out. I don’t believe your behavior today was out of line, either. The best I can tell, there was a void and you filled it, and even if you missed the point of the training, what you _thought_ was the aim, well, you utilized resources and unified your people to achieve it.”

“They’re not my… That is, I just did wh… Wouldn’t anyone do that?”

“No one else did.”

“But I’m… I’m no one.”

“Are you?” Michael stared at her seriously. “You are a guardian. And a soldier. What else is a complete mystery to me, but you’re not ‘no one,’ Jaelle.”

“I’m not that impressive though,” Jaelle insisted. “I wasn’t brave or wise or strong today, your grace. I was afraid and desperate and angry.”

“Angry, soldier?”

Jaelle worried she was being mocked. “Yes, your highness,” she said, “you could have freed this whole place alone, with one hand behind your back.”

“So, you’re angry at me?” 

Jaelle’s stomach dropped. “It seems… That is, they might find it cruel, having their lives played with like this.”

“We’re giving them one last opportunity,” said Michael. 

“Why are you taking the time to talk to me if I didn’t do something wrong?” asked Jaelle.

“Because I’m making you captain in Ariya’s stead until his recovery.”

“But I…”

“I think your naivete is from lack of experience. You’re on the right path, only you’re running behind.”

“No one’s going to want to…” 

“I’ve already informed them that this afternoon’s outburst was perfectly reasonable. I won’t have them looking down on you for it.”

“I…” Jaelle tried to remember her manners. “Thank you, your grace, for that. I don’t know what to do, though.”

“If you’re unsure of anything, come to me.”

“But I don’t want to be a bother—I mean, yes, your grace, I will. I’m… I’m sorry I keep making mistakes.”

“It’s alright. You’re much like someone I knew once.”

“Who, your grace?”

Michael started rolling up the map. “We can’t stand here talking all night,” he said without answering. “And you should get to it, captain.”

Stunned, Jaelle saluted and left the tent. The wind tossed the campfires of the camp, and the lamps in the pavilion flickered. Jaelle wavered just past the threshold. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it hadn’t been that. 

“Told you,” said Legion, “ _Captain_.” He winked. “You’ll do great.”

Myriad, in her gentle quiet way, smiled in equal encouragement. Jaelle tried to smile back in thanks, then headed for the knots of campfires in the adjourning camp, leaving them to chat.

Her steps were slow. She thought of Captain Ariya, of the wanton violence that had led to his discorporation. Then of the prince and how calmly he’d faced that same violence. Neither seemed right, at least not to her own nature. Where did that leave the matter? She hadn’t been trying for attention. She certainly hadn’t been trying to become a captain. She’d never prepared herself to lead. 

And yet, bits and pieces of leading came naturally in the hours after. Jaelle could not have said why, but she found herself gravitating towards knots of soldiers at the camp, checking in, laying a hand on a shoulder or arm where one seemed needed, sometimes just providing a sympathetic ear or bringing others together to talk. 

Matarael found her not long after. He was happy to check on others as soon as he had affirmed she was all in one piece. There were others that stood out in Ariya’s group, and Jaelle found these next. Noel, Sagiya, Hananel… They were good about dreams. Someone would have to help guard against nightmares. 

It wasn’t warring expertise but, Jaelle resolved, she still wasn’t good enough at being a soldier. She’d just have to be a guardian for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My hc is that some demon lords tossed even their broken names to wear the names of tyrants they’ve damned, as bragging rights. Amalek was a war criminal.
> 
> Dang, this chapter was so hard to write. I was torn between wanting to play the whole thing straight and wanting to add five more pages of humor for the sake of my sanity. I promise there'll be good things next time. Lots of good things.


	15. Chapter the Fifteenth – Sigils and Synergy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Some say witches astrally project themselves to meetings, but these days it’s simply more comfortable to stay in one’s pyjamas on the weekend._
> 
> Get ready for some Cameos from the Discworld—or are there more professional descendants than we thought? You choose!
> 
>  **Content/Trigger Warning Note:** As with Chapter the Sixth, while nothing is specified by name, there’s allusion to world events past and present. Whenever possible, no real names or place names are used.

* * *

**C** rowley locked the Philosopher’s Stone back in his safe at four o’clock in the morning. There was a pout to its flickering, but he scowled over the top of his sunglasses before he shut the door and spun the lock. 

Next he folded up a map which had several locations marked around Soho, for no significance of their own, but rather for the patterns that connecting their dots would make. Crowley picked up a pad of paper last and crossed another combination off Anathema’s most recent list. He used his fingernail, and the line smoldered a little. 

It was June, and a Friday. Crowley planned to pick up Adam that afternoon. Adam had asked if all The Them could come for the parade that weekend, which meant Crowley would be driving to Tadfield alone. Although not _quite_ alone. 

Crowley glared at the safe. 

He strode into the conservatory to look in on his plants, scolding the birds of paradise until their heads hung low in shame. 

“If even you can’t grow yourselves right, I don’t know what you expect I can do for you. You have it in you or you don’t. If you’d stop dithering about, you’d…”

“Is everything alright, Crowley?” 

Aziraphale had shuffled into the hall in his slippers and dressing gown. He hovered just at the other entrance to the conservatory, his worried eyes still squinted by sleep.

“Nnh, yeah, sure thing, angel,” said Crowley quickly. He picked up a spider plant that trembled so hard one of its pups popped off. He caught the tiny clone in his opposite hand without looking. Glancing up at the dark skylight he suppressed a sigh. He hadn’t even realized Aziraphale had gone to bed, he’d been too intent on research. “I’ll, um, well, but I’ll be going out. Back soon.”

“You’re certain?”

“Air out the brain cells in two shakes, three tops.” 

* * *

**A** t St. James’ Park, Crowley tossed and caught his spade with a little flip as he pulled it and his usual supplies from the Bentley’s boot. Glancing once at the park bench before settling on his heels, he gave the spider plant a stern lecture before he went to work near a recent line of blossoming lavender. (The pup was set close by.) 

As the little shovel scraped the dirt, Crowley’s hands lost themselves in the familiar task. Eventually, the stress dropped from his shoulders, the sky grayed, and the summer heat started to swell. With it, the chorus of the insects grew to a steady, mind-numbing drone. Crowley soon forgot to listen for footsteps, though the ducks waking gave him a hint, just before he heard the crackle of a plastic bread bag, followed by the creak of bench slats under a bit of weight. 

“Have you called on your mother yet?”

Crowley glanced over his shoulder. The curly-haired woman wore a thin smile in the predawn light. It looked like a smile ready to make trouble, so Crowley grinned right back. 

“Dropped by,” he answered, patting the soil. “Not that She noticed.”

“It didn’t cause a stir?”

“I put on a good face.” Crowley laughed a little and sat back on his heels. As he absently straightened the spider plant’s blades, he watched as the ducks waddled up from the lake and flicked droplets of water off their tails. The birds inspected the woman’s crusts of bread, then each snatched bites with quick jabs of their beaks, watching her all the while with first the left eye, then the right. 

A regular St. Francis, thought Crowley. He turned his trowel in one hand. The sky was getting lighter. He should be getting back, but he felt equally curious. 

“Didn’t catch your name before,” he said. The woman looked up and blinked, as if she’d been lost in her own thoughts. Crowley smiled back winningly until she did too, and he supposed that meant things were alright. 

“You can call me Elly,” she said. “Most do.”

“That can’t be your street name.”

“Street name?”

“I mean, you’re clearly a troublemaker. Ignoring signs. Ruining Mrs. Mallard’s healthy diet.” Crowley nodded at one of the ducks. “There has to be a street name.”

“And how do you know this isn’t it?”

“Name like ‘Elly?’ Too adorable, if you ask for my opinion.”

“Did I?”

Crowley laughed again, and when this warmed her smile, he pulled at his collar and pretended it didn’t make him feel better about his night. 

She asked, “And what do they call you, when you actually answer?”

For some reason, Crowley thought of his old name then. He would never admit it out loud, but there had been a handful of times in the past, bitter, angry times, when he’d thought about just taking it back. Taking it back and using it and _making_ it his, because it would never belong to anyone else anyway. It might be shoving a square peg in a round hole, he’d reasoned, but he could simply flaunt the resulting wreckage in Heaven’s face. But he’d known deep down such a bitter act would only poison the wound, until he _became_ the wound, a hateful and horrid shell of his former self. In the end, it had felt more rebellious not to let its loss ruin him.

“Your street name then?” added Elly, and Crowley realized he’d been pondering too long.

He tossed the shovel to his opposite hand. “Sorry, uh, just… Crowley, Anthony J.”

“What’s the ‘J’ stand for?”

He shrugged like a spasm. “Just a ‘J’ really.”

“I suppose everyone needs an air of mystery about them.” Elly tossed another crust. “Anthony, then?”

“Crowley. Not even my Mother calls me Anthony.”

“Any siblings?”

“Waste of time, the lot of them, most days.” Crowley thought of Raphael without meaning to. “I mean, She doesn’t talk to any of us, if I’m being right honest, so I guess that means we’re all equal, but they act like they’re better. Homebodies and all.” 

“I see,” said Elly. She rolled back the edges of the plastic bag and fished out another crust. “Maybe she doesn’t know what to say.”

“Fair enough, I don’t know what I’d want to hear.”

Elly settled back on her bench and watched the ducks. “That bit of ivy you’re planting, it’s not an English plant?”

“South African. I suppose you could say it’s been Anglicized against its will.”

“It’s far from home.”

“Some plants are just adaptable, if you know how to plant them,” Crowley explained. “Ol’ James, the later one, not the park’s namesake, was a bit too bold. Once kept all sorts of foreign creatures. Crocodiles, an elephant even.”

“It sounds impractical.”

“I’m sure your ducks prefer this version.” Crowley worried he might have been talking too much. “Erm, you got kids?”

“Yes. All grown now though, at least they think so. We don’t talk much.”

“No?”

“I suppose I’ve only myself to blame.”

“Eh, everyone needs their mum sometimes. Sure they’ll come around.”

“Like your siblings might?”

“Well, yours can’t all be bastards.” Crowley grinned, “unless it’s hereditary.”

“You see why I might be worried.”

“That might be what makes it all work out,” said Crowley, and was delighted when this brought back her smile. 

Laughing, Crowley stood up and stretched one arm over his head, then the other, smiling in the first warm rays of the sun. Maybe he’d head back and catch an hour or two of sleep in the den, he thought. Warm his scales in the light of the little star, make it feel useful. And it might do him good, get him ready to tackle the next page of Anathema’s notes. 

Crowley dropped his arms with a slap, decided. “Hope it works out,” he said. “But, I got things to do, places to be.”

“Oh, really?”

“Saving the world, in fact.”

“I wish you luck then. I’ll see you later, Crowley.”

“Depends whether I can, Elly.”

* * *

**T** here is a reason traditional witches often refer to each other as siblings and seldom as friends. No one can bicker like siblings. The annual potluck just wouldn’t be the same without Ms. Lettice Earwig (pronounced “Ah-weej”) and Mrs. Eunice Proust arguing about “witch aesthe _tick_.” Mrs. Earwig traditionally starts off the argument by pronouncing her entire retinue of “silent k’s” in one breath, and Mrs. Proust follows by remarking on Mrs. Earwig’s lack of even a single respectable wart.

Nevertheless, also like siblings, this energy is immediately redirected upon the appearance of a common foe. 

Amity Device lived in the Device family villa on a private island that storms feared to pass over. Amity’s own witch “aesthe _tick_ ” was to soak up Vitamin D by the hour, let a Roomba sweep her floors, and only wear black at funerals.

Amity set her tablet on its stand beside her breakfast plate and spiral-bound notebook, and activated her VPN. Next she tapped an icon which resembled a traffic cone. _[Author’s note: it was_ not _a traffic cone.]_ She reached for the maple syrup as the program loaded.

Some say witches astrally project themselves to meetings, but these days it’s simply more comfortable to stay in one’s pyjamas on the weekend. The video chat service Boom allowed for this. Boom had a number of flaws, the least of which was the onomatopoeia of its name. But, unlike other programs with names seventy-five percent similar, the server was secure and it never sold personal data to strangers. 

Amity typed in her password at the login screen and hit Enter. The screen read, _BookishNBritish has opened the chat._

Within minutes a grid of video feeds appeared. The grid’s cell count changing from four, to nine, to sixteen, and finally to twenty-five screens within the screen. All but one held a face. 

“Good morning, good afternoon, and good evening, sisters and kin,” Amity said, flipping open the cover of her notebook. She already had the itinerary penned out. 

There was a chorus of greetings on a spectrum of giddy to hardly awake as she checked names off a roster. “It’s good to see you all. And Beryl, will you be joining us shortly?”

“I expect I shall be awake in about ten minutes, Amity, dear,” said a quavering elderly voice from the one unoccupied screen labeled _BerylEThere_. Beryl Dismass’s particular skill set often involved getting ahead of herself.

Amity checked the roster. “Very good. If everyone’s here, more or less, why don’t we check in about the past week? Heaven and Hell are in their preliminary skirmishes. I’ve no doubt you’ve all been very busy.” She scanned her notes. “Tiff?”

The first note on the itinerary read, “Bees.”

* * *

**T** here are few places angels and demons can meet for a conference. Most of outer space is free, but it’s not very comfortable. In the past, they might have gathered on a conveniently starlit hilltop, or on the barren plains of a lonely desert. These days, they prefer more metaphorical heights and wastelands. Like boardrooms.

The London Shard’s top office suite is a polished waste of space. This is deliberate. Everything produced by capitalists boasts of low costs, but everything _owned_ by capitalists boasts of waste. How can people know you have too much unless your possessions are cleaned more than they are used?

The front receptionist had thought nothing of it when the booking changed from Mr. Roach P. Sturgeon the Third to Mr. Michael A. Prince. Availability was always a matter of the highest bank account and the main stakeholder in H&H Holdings (Holdings) was a name known well enough in London for the numbers behind it, even if no one could remember when it had been founded.

Hastur arrived early, having decided on filling all ninety-five floors of the stairwell with cigarette smoke. Entering the foyer, he put out his latest cigarette on the “i” of a No Smoking sign, and tucked the stub behind one ear. Just then, the lift _pinged_ open and Lord Beelzebub arrived with the rest of their entourage: There were Dagon, Mammon, Abaddon, Discord, and one of Legion to carry supplies and tote bags of snacks. 

The Lord of the Flies gestured that Legion hand off the luggage and take up the second guard position at the conference room door. There already was an angel there, a messenger in silver, and when the horde demon saw her, he smiled so bright he glittered.

As the rest of the demons passed through the door, the angel twitched a finger and repaired the burnt No Smoking sign. Hastur gave her a dark look (as per his usual), but she only smiled politely.

The archangels had, of course, already arrived. Michael was at the window, hands clasped behind him, turning a stylus between his fingers as if in thought. Uriel and Gabriel were each reviewing notes in well-tabulated folders. Sandalphon paced, flipping through another file. 

Hastur stopped short and made a face. They looked like a stock photo for synergy.

“You’re late,” Michael observed without turning around.

Hastur huffed and recovered his composure. “Not much incentive to be early, your grace, if you’re the worm in the proverb.”

Beelzebub crossed to the table with purposeful strides, eyeing corners for cobwebs. Satisfied these were clear, they loosed their swarm to hover in the eaves. “Lord Michael knew we would be late, Duke Hastur,” they said. “That’s why he set the meeting time an hour early.”

“But _they_ still all came on time,” added Abaddon.

“Of course they did.” 

In the reflective glass, Hastur saw Michael’s smile curl a bit tighter.

“It’s been a long week,” said Gabriel. “I, for one, will be happy when this meeting is over and we can get back to work.”

“Because you were doing so well,” said Dagon, splitting a sharp-toothed grin.

Sandalphon huffed and clapped his folder shut. “We were doing better than ‘well,’” he said. “Until that man with th-the goat bested us with… with…” For all past jokes, the archangel couldn’t say the word on the tip of his tongue in the presence of demons.

“Oh, I don’t know, I thought it was rather poetic,” Dagon sighed.

Gabriel was on his feet immediately. “So _you_ employed them?”

“Spare us the righteous temper tantrum, cherub cheeks.” Beelzebub rolled their eyes.

Gabriel looked at Sandalphon, genuinely confused. “Do I look like I have four heads?”

Beelzebub added, “The last thing Hell wants is a bunch of necromancers messing up the afterlife.”

“I thought he said he was an IT professor,” said Sandalphon.

“Everyone’s got a day job.”

“Is this going to take all of our day, my lords?” Mammon huffed, trudging towards the table.

“No doubt you have some innocent souls yet to crush under the heel of late-stage capitalism,” said Uriel darkly.

“We all have our hobbies,” the demon of Greed chortled. His jewelry clanked as he walked. “Don’t pretend you’ll not be sad to see them go, sunshine.”

“I’ll be glad when—”

Michael cleared his throat just as Beelzebub held up a warning hand. Both sides ceased arguing immediately. 

“Myriad,” said the prince, without turning around, “if you would.”

“Legion,” added Beelzebub pointedly.

The angel and demon guards nodded and stepped out into the foyer, shutting the doors behind them.

Some of the synergy fizzled. 

Immediately, the demons commandeered half the conference table, setting down briefcases, tote bags of chips, and, in the case of Discord, several bits of signage without which navigating the lobby downstairs had become a trial of Hercules. Somehow the presence of the demons alone smudged the table’s polished surface with fingerprints and coffee stains instantly. The chair under Mammon in particular developed a squeaky wheel, faux leather, and a label on the underside which read “Made in China.” 

Michael turned on his heel and joined them. “Lords and lieges, good morning,” he said, picking up his own file. He evened its edges with a few careful taps. “I’m sure you know we’ve a lot on our itinerary.”

“As have we,” said Beelzebub. “This is a step up from the park though.”

“Now that the alliance is open knowledge we’ve no need to sneak about.”

“Around humans.” Hastur glanced pointedly at the closed doors. 

“I hope you’ve brought good news,” said Gabriel.

“That your job, isn’t it?” asked Beelzebub with a smirk.

Spotting another No Smoking sign on a tabletop tent, Hastur relit his cigarette on his thumb. 

“Since we’re all getting along as well as usual, let’s get started,” said Michael, pointedly ignoring him. “What are your reports?”

Dagon drew several folders of notes from a briefcase and began distributing them. Each file was approximately three fingers thick.

“Like I said,” buzzed Beelzebub, turning open their file with a flick of one hand. “We’re not exactly bringing good news. Are you?”

Gabriel and Uriel immediately looked embarrassed. 

* * *

**_I_ ** _t had started with the bees. Gabriel was a fan of fire ants himself, despite an inclination for the cold, and so these and Uriel’s hives from Eden were summoned to swarm and attack the local metropolises just as the archangels touched down on the coast._

_A strange fog was moving in by the time they approached the new parliament building, but they didn’t get so far as to wonder at it, because something went splash._

_“I thought the river’s north of here,” said Gabriel. There was something pungent and woody in the air. He coughed._

_So did Uriel._

_Squinting through the growing fog, the two archangels, watched as the ants piled up worriedly at the edge of a strange lake in the courtyard in front of the obscured government building. The droning of the bees began to slur, and suddenly the rank and file armies of Heaven’s smallest soldiers broke into a bout of intoxicated loop-de-loops._

_Uriel looked up, squinting to see past the fog, and noticed that the moon was out. This was hardly unusual during the day, except it seemed to be full, whereas the past night it had been in its first quarter._

_Slowly, she said, “What on Earth is happening?”_

_Gabriel coughed again, this time harder. He felt his feathers shiver. What was that smell? It wasn’t musk, but there was something definitely_ territorial _about it. Something that pinged his angel sense of judgment specifically._

_Uriel pulled the ruff of one sleeve across her mouth. “Is that… cedar?”_

_“And sackcloth,” Gabriel realized. “Do they have sackcloth?”_

_Before Uriel could answer, they heard a watery sound ahead of them._

Slosh, slosh, sl-slosh… 

_A strange shape appeared out of the fog. It was human-sized, but its thinner bits were thicker than one might expect. The neck was all but gone and the joints too. It was coming closer._

Slosh, slosh, sl-slosh-slosh.

_The angels realized as it advanced that it was a person in a stiff, padded suit. On the person’s head they wore a broad hat with an opaque, netted veil. In one gloved hand, they held a spray can, the old sort with a hand-driven plunger. A tendril of smoke curled up from the can's bottle nose._

_Uriel stepped forward and the ants scattered drunkenly._

_“Who are you?” she called._

Sl-slosh. _The figure stopped just a few feet from the shore of the strange new lake._

_“You’re the archangels, Gabriel and Uriel?” it called back._

_“Who’s asking?” asked Uriel._

_“You’re here about parliament. I’m afraid you’re too late.”_

_“Someone’s flooded it?” Gabriel suggested._

_A voice behind them said, “No.”_

_They turned. A very large person stood in the fog. The exact figure was hard to make out, but it reminded Uriel strongly of jolly renditions of the man in the moon, only it was a woman. She had very curly hair and a pointed hat._

_“I’m afraid the governor-general and the prime minister have resigned as of this morning,” she said merrily. “Fallen ill.”_

_“Where are their replacements?” asked Uriel._

_“The people have called a vote, once the voting machines are working correctly.”_

_“They’re broken?” asked Gabriel._

_“They will be, until everyone is allowed to use them. I guess you could say there’s a bug in the system.”_

_“Is now a time for puns?” Gabriel replied._

_“But as such,” the woman in the suit added, “your services will no longer be necessary here. These people are under our care until the leadership is back in order.”_

_“You’re their leaders?”_

_“We’re their caretakers.”_

_“And who are you?” asked Uriel._

_“I’m Tiffany, and that there is Luny”_

_The very large woman beamed._

_“—and you’re the ones who have no one left to judge.”_

_The ants still staggered this way and that about the angels’ ankles, and the bees were starting to sleep where they hovered, some drifting down slowly towards the water. Uriel and Gabriel watched as the beekeeper puffed a bit more smoke into the air from the spray can. It was ridiculous, downright impossible, that all this fog had come out of that small aluminum canister. And yet there it was, just like the equally impossible moon, beaming opposite her._

_“I suppose you’re very relieved,” said the one called Tiffany._

_Gabriel and Uriel exchanged a worried look._

_“No,” said Gabriel, “to be honest.”_

_“Too bad.”_

* * *

**“T** he swarms are usually a bit hit. And I mean that literally,” said Gabriel, folding his hands on the tabletop. He tried to beam confidently, realized his knee had started to jog under the table, and clenched a bit to hold still. Meanwhile, Uriel scowled.

“Witches aren’t supposed to be _beekeepers_ ,” she said. “First the flowers, now the bees. Will they leave nothing alone?”

“Then they would be poor stewards,” Michael reminded Uriel, gently since he understood the other archangel’s attachment to flora. To the demons he added, “I’m more concerned about the sackcloth and cedar. Someone’s been dropping hints about our weaknesses.”

“Don’t look at us,” said Beelzebub. “Who knows where witches get their powers from?”

* * *

**“T** he smoke machine did just the trick, Ms. Proust,” said Tiffany. She had just finished describing the joint effort. “It threw a wrench right into their angelic humbug.”

“There’s nothing to throw off the forces of good or evil like special effects,” said Mrs. Earwig, who occupied the screen labeled _Pests4Pets_. “With that we can agree, Eunice.”

“Just with that, Lettice, dear,” Mrs. Proust confirmed. “But we wouldn’t have known that burlap was in beekeeper’s smoke if you hadn’t told us, Tiffany, dear,” she added proudly.

“It’s not _exactly_ sackcloth, but it does in the pinch,” said Tiffany. “And Amity said the smell throws off divine and devilish judgment.”

“I have it from an expert,” Amity said with a nod, crossing “Bees” off the itinerary. “One of my daughter’s friends.”

“But the rising river,” added Luny excitedly, beaming her moon-bright smile behind the screen name _TidesWillTell_. “That did just the trick for the ants.”

“We’re far stretched though,” Amity admitted. She tapped her pen on the next matter at hand. “I guess we’re not saying the private travel funds were a godsend this time?”

“We’ll just say they were sent by me,” said the prim woman behind the screen name _Lady_of_Lancre_. She wore tasteful crystals. “Which reminds me, what happened south of the Equator?”

A screen near the bottom was empty, as Mrs. Happenstance had needed to use the lough, but Beryl had arrived and picked up her knitting. “Yes, who had that one?” she asked a few minutes ahead of time.

Someone near the middle of the screen cackled and said, “Gayha, do you want to tell them, or shall I?”

“Oh, I think you tell it better Perdita,” said the ferrier to her right.

Behind the screen name _NittNPretty_ , Perdita, whose name was sometimes Agnus, smirked.

* * *

**“W** hich bring us to your business in East Africa,” Michael said with some exasperation, and looked reluctantly at Hastur. 

“Yes, Hastur, how did that work out, since you didn’t bring Discord?” Not one to encourage efficiency among angels, the Lord of the Flies was exerting a bit of Sloth by reaching across the table between them for snacks.

Hastur and Discord eyed one another, and Hastur groaned as the council lord grinned. 

“Not much to tell,” said Hastur.

Beelzebub popped open a bag of crisps. Per tradition, every package in the totes contained something fried, salted, or sugar-coated—if not all three. They had instructed Legion to buy only what was sure to crunch noisily and leave crumbs. Now they gave Hastur a pointed look.

“So make it quick.”

Hastur unhurriedly ground out his cigarette on a surviving bit of the table’s shininess, then flipped open his folder. He was not, he decided, going to give any more details than necessary. 

* * *

**_S_** _he was rail thin, if the comparison were to an iron rail. Anyone else sitting on the steps of brutalist architecture looks small by design. She sat like the place were a castle she’d conquered. And the wardens of the place were wailing._

_Hastur looked up at the sign above the heavy glass doors of the portico. It read, Caplan Reeducation Center for Deviant and Immoral Youths. He looked back down at the woman. The hat was missing, and the dress was white lace, not coal-black, but Hastur knew none of that mattered._

_Inside the Center, the prisoners were singing. Every window was open, every door, and every shackle, too. They were singing praises, the sort that made Hastur swallow and taste his own stagnant blood, because it made something in his ears bleed._

_Hastur had liked music once. He’d been a harpist. He’d had a voice on him, too. It didn’t matter now. He shouldn’t have even been thinking about it. But she was looking at him in a knowing way, and Hastur had a feeling that was why._

_He wished the singing would stop._

_Around him and the hundred of Legion with him, there was chaos. Hastur could feel how it tore at the air, whirling like a storm. But she was the calm in its center. Between her fingers she held something long and fine and bone-colored, like a stylus, or a conductor’s baton. It twitched. There was a reason the prisoners were singing, after all, and it was because the prison wardens were wailing._

_There were two dozen wardens, and all wore security uniforms deliberately designed to resemble those of law enforcement. They cowered now as they wailed and wept. They tried to speak, but their words tumbled and bumbled uselessly until their eyes widened and their hands clawed at their own throats. A proper linguist could have told them they were all speaking different languages—each one with its own collection of phonemes and syntax. But past that, no one could have made out what each speaker_ meant _._

_The woman was talking to them, too quietly to be heard from a distance. Frankly, Hastur didn’t want to know what she was saying, but cowardice didn’t make you a duke, so, beckoning to Legion, Hastur led forward the forces of Hell._

_It would have been as dramatic as it sounded or more if not a few paces in something hadn’t snagged their feet with an electric_ zzzz-snap! _A stab of silver pain shot up Hastur’s heel._

_“Bless it,” he hissed. Marks on the stones of a blackish orange, flared white on every tile where a demon stood. It was like stepping on a spiritual bear trap._

_Perplexed but more used to pain, one of Legion bent to untie his shoes to escape. He yelped when the laces turned into tiny snakes and bit his fingers._

_“Don’t touch them, you idiot,” said Hastur. “Those are iron filings.”_

_Another one of Legion kicked his free foot at the mark and the sole promptly stuck. “Seems to be held by some kind of glue,” he said. He wiggled, then winced. “It hurts to move.”_

_“Then stop moving.” Hastur plugged his ear with one finger. He snapped with his other hand to call down lightning to cut himself loose. The sky stayed clear._

_Hastur glared at the woman again, and she smirked. Shuddering in fury, immediately hungry for revenge, Hastur was ready to split into one of his favorite forms, to rupture reality as a horde of maggots, a flood of stinking slime and ravenous mouths ready to consume the whole street—_

_But Hastur had faced witches before. So instead he spat out his cigarette, sending a small swarm of the worms out across the lot. As soon as they hit any mark, they sizzled and popped like tiny overcooked hotdogs._

_“Damned spellcaster,” he muttered._

_At the head of the wardens was the Center’s manager, a man with a specific kind of white collar. Hastur recognized him as one from Hell’s lists, the so-called reverend, Solomon Graves, who had spent the last ten years putting the fear of everything but G-d into his inmates._

_Hastur was close enough to hear the witch’s words now. She was telling her prisoners a story._

_“_ Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech… _”_

_Hastur said, “Hey,” but she held up a finger. He fumed but let her finish._

“So the L-rd scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city. Therefore is the name of it called Babel…” [[ X ](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Genesis+11%3A1-9&version=KJV)]

_By now, a few of the security officers had acquired a legal pad from somewhere and were hastily writing down messages. Their brief flash of hope died and the wailing started over, as they realized even their pen strokes made no sense._

_The woman looked at Hastur again, and crooked the raised finger. Hastur’s stomach plunged as he felt himself dragged forward. He blessed again, sneering. Still, his feet stomped out one step, then another. With another twitch of her baton, the witch had him planted on a different flagstone._

_“You’re here for them, I expect?” she asked, and glanced at the wardens. She had a British accent._

_“Who in the Ninth Circle are you?” Hastur demanded._

_“I’m no one around that neighborhood.” She did not shrug. “But you don’t want to get on my bad side.”_

_“This your good side then?”_

_“It's not my worst,” she said, and her eyes sparked with something that reminded him a little too much of hellfire. “You were going to punish these monsters with… what? A plague of boils? A literal gnawing doubt? Or, let me guess, a sense of personal accountability?”_

_Hastur sneered. “And what have you done that’s any worse?”_

_The woman smiled. “What do you think happens to monsters that trap defenseless innocents in stone towers?”_

_The reverend was shouting for order, at least by the waving of his hands. This merely increased the chaos. In a moment of inspiration, Legion began pulling paperclips and rubber bands from his pockets, and made a slingshot of his fingers to bother them._

_“You see, they never tried to understand. So now they will never be understood,” said the witch. “Every last one of them will be just another monster growling in the forest until it’s hunted down.”_

_Hastur didn’t care for someone being more dramatic than him. “That so? Then just call off the fireworks and send us on our way.”_

_The sigils seemed to glow more strongly. Hastur blessed loudly. It felt like his feet had been sewn in place with barbed wire._

_The witch said, “Would you like me to tell you a story?”_

_“No thanks, I’m full up,” said Hastur._

_“Yes, I think you already are. And if you don’t escape, it’ll be a long journey to make in the dark.”_

_“Doesn’t take a genius to know the lighting’s shot in Hell,” Hastur muttered._

_“Be careful, Duke Hastur,” said the witch, and then to his surprise she chanted:_

> It is said he made his earth-journey, and lost
> 
> what he sought.
> 
> It is said they felled him
> 
> and cut up his limbs for firewood. [[ X ](https://allpoetry.com/A-Tree-Telling-Of-Orpheus)]

_Hastur shuddered and forgot the barbs. “What are you going on about, you old bird?”_

_“You don’t know the story you’re trapped in?” she said, and stood up. The storm of chaos around her widened, as if her power had pushed it. Still, the singing rang through the streets, and the wardens wailed. “A tempter like yourself must know by now, if you don’t find your own story, you will end up a pawn in someone else’s.”_

_“I don’t give tuppence for dead men’s tales,” said Hastur._

_“How about dead frogs?” The witch smiled unpleasantly up at the amphibious familiar perched on Hastur’s head. “The ones boiled slowly in a pot?”_

_“What about me?” asked the nearest Legion, unhelpfully._

_“Legion, I swear to Sat—”_

_“A Grimm’s tale then?”_

_“Oh, I like fairy tales!”_

_Hastur groaned._

_“Once upon a time there was a young man who could not shudder. He faced ghosts and beasts and demons and dogs, and even won a princess’s hand in marriage. He only shuddered when one day she threw a bucket of ice water over his head. And then they laughed together.”_

_“Oh, that’s marvelous!” said Legion._

_“Quit encouraging her!” Hastur snapped. “Look, we have worse things to do than be in your way, you old scryer.”_

_“I know you do, but none of them are here.”_

_Sirens screamed in the distance. The next moment, paramedics pulled up in ambulances. With them were second-hand cars, and out of these came reporters looking for first-hand news. Delighted, one of Legion waved down the nearest for comment._

_Eventually, the prisoners had poured out into the street and left in joyful procession, much to Hastur’s relief. At that moment, the witch stood up, smiled, and then vanished. In the same instant, the sigils smoked and went out, their lines broken into nothing more than abandoned graffiti across the flagstones._

_“Lord Beelzebub won’t be happy about this,” said Legion._

_Hastur wasn’t happy either, but that was nothing new these days._

* * *

**“A** ccording to our files,” said Dagon, “this ‘Agnus Nitt’ has a… second personality.”

“But what do you know about either?” asked Michael.

“She was friends with a witch named Weatherwax,” Dagon said, and shuddered. “Apparently, when she told the story, it… _became_.”

Hastur shook all over again. He said, “Anyway, we smote the staff with a case of the boils, just to say we did something, but I don’t think we’re dealing with nice people.”

“Not in the new sense.” Michael slashed another line through an itemized list and braced himself for the next report. “The last of those died out centuries ago. Did you get into the building at least?”

“There were horseshoes over every doorway,” Hastur concluded. “Iron nails in the window frames too. We couldn’t get in to cause any trouble. The cleaning crew said the woman came that morning with a permit.”

“How is there even a permit for that?” asked Dagon (but made a note).

Discord had been defacing his collection of signs absentmindedly as Hastur explained. “Cold iron burns, you know,” he told Michael. “You lot never mentioned there were humans who still knew how to forge cold iron.”

“The Ogg Family is nefarious for their connections with smithing,” said Michael.

“And the Weatherwaxes with smiting,” laughed Abbadon. 

“Well, before we continue, I have to say I did everything I could think of,” Sandalphon said, pushing his own folder around nervously.

“So what does ‘nothing’ say about your intelligence?” asked Beelzebub hotly.

“Michael,” Sandalphon pleaded.

“I’ve read the report,” Michael confirmed. “But what is your version of the story?”

* * *

**“O** ur next thank you goes out to Claire Shimmy,” Amity announced. She crossed off “Re-ed Camp.” 

“What can I say. I know people,” said Claire with a shrug and a jangle of earrings. “Did they fire you after, Geoff?”

“They only hired me for IT work,” said the man sitting behind the practical screen name _GSwivel@GSI.edu_. He wore a pocket protector. “They can’t prove anything.”

“I just wish I could have seen the angel’s face,” laughed Mrs. Treason. Her own eyes had misted over long ago, but she could have seen anything so long as she had a pair of eyes to borrow. She was preening an owl’s feathers as she spoke. “Tell us all about it, Geoff.”

* * *

**_F_ ** _reedom College had been named either optimistically or deceptively, and there was a very strong chance it had been the latter. Few institutes of higher learning have a dean as famous as Jimmy Farewell, or one as rich, and even fewer will stand busts of the still-living dean in the lobbies of what buildings on campus are named after him. He even had his own television program._

 _There were names among the staff, however, that no one took much notice of. One of these was the adjunct professor from abroad, Geoffrey Swivel III. He’d been brought on for his IT work, though his CV mentioned that he’d studied the_ Key of Solomon _at Oxford._

_His dancing goat did halftime shows for the school’s American Football team._

_The times Dean Jimmy had used the phrase “holy ground” without proper legal sanction were too many to forgive with anything less than judgment. Even so, Heaven had been long-suffering out of concern for the delicate faith of his naive students. When at last it proved clear that this delicate faith turned too readily to emulation, concern dried up._

_Sandalphon had planned this one for weeks. It started with rainstorms, on and off for a month. He’d pictured it as something akin to the disaster of the Sons of Korah: A yawning maw in the earth, hungrily devouring the proud, unsuspecting sinners in one sudden instant of calamity._

_But when the ground shook, and shook, but held, Sandalphon had to come down from the sky and look matters over._

_On a low wall around a bit of cultivated green, a young man with a pocket protector sat alone. He was the kind of thin that made you think he must often forget to feed anything but his mind, but his eyes were bright, as if this were enough. There was a book on his lap. The book was precisely the kind of volume, Sandalphon thought, that embodied the word “tome.”_

_The man was holding a bunch of celery as well. Beside him on the green lay a large goat with ridged, swept-back horns. The man was feeding the celery, stalk by stalk, to the goat._

_“Fear not,” said Sandalphon perfunctorily, then glowered._

_The man broke off another stalk. “I don’t, generally,” he said._

_It was a remarkably reasonable answer. Sandalphon was taken aback. People usually did not answer reasonably to angels. They usually panicked or groveled._

_“My name is Geoff Swivel the Third,” said the man. “And I’m the adjunct IT professor here.”_

_“My name is… Sandalphon,” said Sandalphon, further confused by this politeness. It was considerably more difficult to justify smiting someone with good manners. “And I’m the judge of this place.”_

_“Interesting,” said Geoff Swivel III._

_Sandalphon smiled and straightened the lapels of a suit much nicer than an adjunct professor could afford. He decided he, too, could be reasonable._

_“Young man, what do you think you’re doing?”_

_“I’m feeding my goat.”_

_“I mean, with that book.”_

_“This campus is riddled with sin. Clearly, it has to be punished.”_

_“Well this campus is… wait, what?” Sandalphon blinked but, no, he had heard right. The man had said right back to him the words he’d been planning on arguing with._

_Another stalk of celery wobbled into oblivion like a log in a wood chipper. The goat watched Sandalphon with its strange, square pupils._

_“No need to worry yourself. It’s well in hand,” the man added. “I much prefer a reformative approach. The problem will be dealt with”—He looked at his watch and broke off another piece of celery—“in approximately five minutes.”_

_“Don’t you know, young man,” said Sandalphon, “that vengeance is the L-rd’s?”_

_“Don’t you know, angel,” said the man, “that ‘_ to do justice and judgment is more acceptable to the L-rd than sacrifice _’?”_ [ [ X ](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=proverb+21%3A3&version=KJV)]

_“I am not here to banter with the likes of you, a common worker, a herdsman, a…”_

_“An adjunct professor,” the man reminded him patiently. “I know. You’re here for Dean Farewell.”_

_Sandalphon wagged a warning finger. “That man is leading a cult!” he fumed. “Like any rebel, he will be plunged into the depths of the Pit…”_

_“I know.”_

_“Well, besides that, what are you doing with that goat?”_

_“What, Mephithopheles? It’s his lunchtime.”_

_The goat continued to stare at Sandalphon as he chomped on the last celery stalk._

_The man checked his watch again. “Please excuse me,” he said. Standing up, he pulled something from his pocket. It was square and plastic, and rattled when he moved it. He pressed something on one side and a lid popped open. It held several pieces of chalk, all different colors._

_Walking around the green to a bit of smooth pavement on one side, the man took out a piece of white chalk and put the rest away. The goat hopped to its hooves and followed him._

_Sandalphon had not noticed the intricate wheel of markings on the concrete before, but there were letters in it that he did recognize. He followed the moment he saw them._

_“Is that what I think it is?”_

_“Tell me your thoughts, and I’ll tell you if you’re right,” said Geoff. “In just a moment. I apologize, but it’s just I’ve been preparing all this several days in advance and timing is very important.”_

_The second hand met the hour hand and the teacher bent over the complex web of lines and letters. It would have looked alchemaic, except the letters were older than Latin._

_He wrote one more letter, and said something very quietly._

_Instantly, the sky clouded over and thunder boomed. Sandalphon, perturbed that he had not been consulted in this change in the weather, stormed to the edge of the ring as it started to glow._

_“Now, listen here, young man,” he said._

_“Geoff.”_

_“I don’t care.”_

_“Well, it is Geoff.”_

_Something stood up out of the ground without leaving a hole behind. The figure blinked once, then pulled off a pair of reading glasses. It had a familiar face and looked slightly translucent._

_The image of the Lord of the Files stood with a folder open in his hands and a pen behind one ear. He considered the sky, the campus, and at last Sandalphon._

_“We weren’t meeting today,” he said. “What’s going on? ”_

_Sandalphon jabbed an accusing finger. “It wasn’t me.”_

_“The goat?”_

_“No, the man with the goat!”_

_“Dagon, Lord of the Files?” said the man, putting away his chalk_

_“Yes.”_

_“Geoff Swivel the Third—He and his and him. How may I address you?”_

_“Same,” said Dagon. “For now. I change it up now and then.”_

_“Thank you for letting me know,” said Geoff. “I know you’re a very busy demon, but I’ve summoned you for a task that requires one facet of your expertise.”_

_Dagon eyed the circle. He sighed. “There’s not much I can do about that, I suppose.” The demon looked at Sandalphon next. “I thought you had this sorted.”_

_“It’s not my fault._ He’s _here.”_

_Geoff said, “It’s about Jimmy Farewell. I’ve done what I can from an IT standpoint, and need you to do the rest. It’s about the folder on his personal computer labeled ‘Taxes.’”_

_“What about it?”_

_“Well, you are the Lord of the Files, aren’t you?”_

* * *

**“I** t just was more reasonable to cooperate,” Dagon explained, dropping his folder on the table. “The man clearly knew the original version of the _Key of Solomon._ We would have been stuck there all day, or in some lead box for the rest of eternity.”

“Funny, because no one is supposed to have known demon-compelling sigils since _Solomon_ ,” said Michael suspiciously. “I’m pretty certain Oxford doesn’t have the original edition of the _Key_.”

Mammon chortled as he played with his rings. “Shame though about the arrest. Farewell’s prosperity gospel’s brought me rich gains. In souls anyway.”

“And his campaign donations have toppled justice in towns all over that nation,” added Uriel grudgingly. “How did he get a male witch on his staff? Not to mention the goat, what was its name?”

“Mephistopheles,” Michael checked the note, then looked to Sandalphon. “You’re serious?”

“Unfortunately. Yes.” 

“To be fair,” buzzed the other prince. “Even Lord Mephistopheles thought that was funny.”

“What about the sinkhole?” asked Abaddon.

“The earth’s been oddly stable since,” said Sandalphon miserably.

“Wait, was the teacher a witch?” Gabriel asked curiously. “I thought witches were women.”

“A common misconception,” said Michael offhand.

“Speaking of,” added Dagon, and cringed.

“Yes,” added Sandalphon. “We were… persuaded to afflict certain staff and upperclassmen with sterility until the collective repenting of their bigotry and, er…” He looked to Dagon.

“We changed all their passwords to their birthdays,” the Lord of the Files explained. “Since the first sensitive files came to light, they are all bound to be under suspicion for quite some time. The school may even shut down.” 

“Why were they sensitive files?” asked Gabriel.

Beelzebub smirked again. “Maybe we’ll tell you when you’re older, pigeon.”

“As soon as I know why I should resent that remark, I warn you, I will,” said Gabriel.

“That just leaves your last report,” Beelzebub said to Michael. They steepled their fingertips. “The one with the lawyer?”

* * *

**“O** ur last item is Antigone Gogol’s work in New York. Antigone?”

The small woman with the screen name _Shuckle@theBar_ sat up straighter in her seat. The room behind her was filled with uniform books with gold filigree. From the size of the screen it was hard to tell if they were magic or legal in nature, though at times for her these encompassed the same thing. 

She adjusted her glasses, then steepled her fingertips so perfectly it would have made Prince Beelzebub jealous. Antigone always wore a suit to meetings. She worked pro bono—unless one counted the terror of the wicked as wages. 

“Well, you know the plague of darkness wasn’t very original,” she said. “But the new Metropolitan Health and Human Services Department is now in charge of prosecuting any medical-related infractions. Being angels, they couldn’t ignore the court summons.”

“What was the charge?” asked Amity curiously.

“Obstructing medical responders.”

“You sent angels to _jail_?”

“Not exactly. The prisons didn’t want them. We got them to court and made them wait.”

Gayha chuckled. “Too many stories of them breaking people out, I’ll bet. You should have insisted.”

“I prepared what I had time to prepare, and what would irk them the most,” Antigone explained. “The goal is to make them think twice before coming back.”

“To New York City?” Amity asked in amazement.

“Yes, and there’s some debate over whether to include Jersey for good measure.”

* * *

**“Y** ou were banished by… a lawyer?” asked Dagon, mystified (but still taking extensive notes excitedly).

“It was very well arranged,” admitted Michael reluctantly. “We were met with the subpoena upon landing. And she had everything in order somehow, even with the city plunged into darkness.”

“They had us waiting outside the courtroom for seven hours,” Gabriel fumed.

Abaddon crackled with laughter. His armor and weaponry rattled like recycling day. 

“The exact words are ‘restraining order,’” said Uriel, studying the document.

“The administrative judge was Chives or something like that,” said Gabriel, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “She said if there’s an opposite to giving the key to the city, we earned it.”

Hastur had made an ashtray of one of Discord’s stolen placards and was currently on his eighth stub. He shrugged. “So just tell them the plague of darkness was a blackout and blame someone else,” he said. 

Gabriel’s jaw dropped. “That would be _lying_!”

“Then smite the witch,” said Abaddon. “Isn’t that what you lot do? Thwart the wiles of evildoers?”

“Mrs. Gogol’s actions were within the lines of lawful good,” Michael explained. 

“So you’re saying they play the game better than you do?” mocked Discord.

“Than _we_ do?” The correction came unhurried as Hastur lit another cigarette. Discord glowered. 

Michael didn’t flinch, but the duration of his stare before speaking hinted he was struggling for patience. “There is only so much we can do without a way to impose order and chaos from both sides,” he said. 

“Witches always were a wrench in the gears of the Great Plan,” Sandalphon pointed out. “Always trouble. Like that time they brought back one of our prophets to—”

“Yes, Sandalphon, but that isn’t relevant now,” Michael interrupted. “Our plan requires ten deliberate evildoers in every location we punish. They’ve unseated several, predicting our every move, right down to knowing our goals and working against or even for us, accordingly.”

“They can’t know everything,” said Discord.

“Legion tried to sic pigs on some bedouins and a witch was there to put the pigs to sleep,” said Beelzebub.

“You all are using the radio to communicate these goings on?” asked Hastur.

The table fell silent as he lit his ninth cigarette.

At last Michael said, “Aziraphale.”

Hastur nodded as if to say, _You’re Welcome._

Gabriel turned his head on one side. “Aziraphale doesn’t know our procedures. He’s a principality. It’s not his department.”

“Aziraphale has read every book in Heaven’s library,” said Michael. “Most before the seventh day, and not a few after.”

“So he may have read the one on damnation,” Uriel observed. She and Michael exchanged a pointed look that the demons didn’t understand. 

“He collects antique books,” added Sandalphon. “Maybe even an original _Key of Solomon_.”

“No doubt that traitor Crowley is also involved,” remarked Beelzebub. 

Michael tapped his finger on the last folder. “From now on, we ought to continue under radio silence.”

“Fair,” said Beelzebub. “But if there’s not enough evidence to smite humankind, how else are we supposed to end the world?”

Michael considered this. “Without the Horsemen extra work will be necessary.” He slowly gathered the folders and stacked them one on top of the other. “I suggest we take a few days off and consider our communication channels. See if there’s any way to cut these witches off.”

* * *

**“I** mean, it’s really just a matter of confidence,” Petulia was saying. Her screen name read _OinkOinkZZZ_. “Pigs can be quite docile creatures once in a blue moon.”

“Is there no way we can turn the demons and angels against one another?” asked Agnus curiously.

“They’ve already been against each other,” Gayha pointed out. “The real question is, why are they both against all of us?”

“I never knew a perfectionist who liked himself.” Mrs. Treason was using her webcam as a means of resetting a prosthetic that gave her a hooked nose. 

Amity struck the last item from her lists. “Well, you all have your assignments for this week. Same time next Sunday?”

There was a chorus of agreements. One-by-one the screens winked out. 

Eventually, Amity was left with just one square in the upper corner of her screen. Anathema had joined late, and was sitting with Newton (who was a safe distance away from even the wi-fi router). He was taking notes in pencil.

“Well,” said Amity, “how is the fireproofing going?”

* * *

Halfway through the meeting, Eric (also known as Legion) looked sideways at Myriad and got up the courage to ask, “So what do you do?”

“Me? Oh, a little bit of everything. You?”

“Same.” Eric could not stop smiling. Sigils and snake laces aside, he was more than excited to be at this meeting, if only for the company. 

“Do you guard often?” asked Myriad.

“I’d rather guard than make reports. Duke Hastur especially can be nasty, though he’s nothing compared to the Council.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Myriad’s cheeks flushed a rosy shade of pink when she smiled. Eric couldn’t get over how much he liked it. She said, “Things must be so different down there. I can’t begin to imagine.”

“You shouldn’t have to. No point in two people suffering,” said Eric. He juggled his spear from hand to hand. 

“So, you’re just a foot soldier now, right?”

“Yup: Only one lower than me in rank is Fergus. But it’s us demons’ own fault for swearing our loyalty, right?”

“You swore loyalty?”

“Yeah.” Eric rolled back his right sleeve. “See?”

He held out the arm and Myriad leaned forward politely. 

“Not clearly,” she admitted, since they were both on opposite posts of the doors. 

“Oh, um…” Eric shuffled sideways. “How about now?”

Myriad shuffled too. “A little better.”

“Now?”

“Yes, that’s clear.”

Eric glanced at the doors, then at Myriad, who was now only inches away. His stomach felt full of butterflies, but it was only in the figurative way, and that was alright. [Author’s note: You didn’t get the chalky taste on your tongue when it was only figurative.] He said, “He, that is, _you-know-who_ , branded us before the rebellion, so we’d know each other if things heated up—and _whoo_ , did we not realize how literal _that_ was going to be.”

“It was all kind of sudden.”

“So it’s broken now, but this was my name.”

“So that’s… well, it doesn’t say Eric?”

“Nope.”

Myriad nodded and blushed again. “It’s not bad? I mean, it doesn’t hurt?”

“No, I can hardly remember.”

“Oh, thank G—I mean—”

“No, it’s okay. You can thank Her.”

“Thanks.” Myriad fiddled a bit.

“But, uh, what’s She like?”

“Who?”

“You know, the Almighty.”

“Oh, uh… Well, we don’t get to see Her.”

Eric’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding? After all that?”

“Well, there’s the Metatron of course.”

For a moment each guard fidgeted with their spear. 

“You know,” said Myriad at last, “loyalty’s a virtue.”

“It would have been hard not to be loyal to Lucifer,” Eric admitted. “I mean, the world was young. I don’t hold it against anyone. That’s me, carefree. No worry here.” He fumbled his spear, then managed to casually lean on it. “After all, why waste your life on someone else’s problems, right?”

“I’m kind of impressed. You know, that you’ve stayed… nice.”

“Oh, well, I can be nasty…” Eric grinned and she laughed again. “But, really, I was made to help everyone. Nothing they do to me is irreversible. It’s just _zap!_ Then _pop!_ Then _I’m back!_ Can’t really get rid of me, unless someone threw holy water on me, I suppose.”

“That would be horrible!” 

“Thank you for saying so.”

“I mean it!” Myriad grabbed him by the arm. “You’re the first being I’ve ever met like me since the start of time.”

“Oh.” Eric tried to think of something else to say, but he was suddenly very distracted by the state of his arm, so all he could come up with was, “Um” and “Er…” for a few seconds.

“What about Down There?”

“Oh, we have lots of hordes. I guess most of them fell.”

Myriad’s eyes shaded to a worried shade of green. 

“You’re the prettiest one I’ve known though. Not to flatter or anything…”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You know, we should hang out more. I mean, more of us should hang out. And we should hang out more the other way, too, like, hang out more often. Maybe?”

“I’d like that.”

“You would?”

“Yes.” Myriad nodded. “Yes, I would.”

* * *

**T** here was a rattle at the door, and the angel and demon quickly jumped back from one another. The next moment, Hastur kicked open the door.

“Well, if you’re all done,” he said, “I’ve gotta see a demon about some dogs.”

“Do you demons ever talk without being crass?” asked Uriel dryly.

“Not to you angels, we don’t,” laughed Beelzebub. As the flies zipped back under their hat, they turned back to the conference room. “Lord Michael, why not help us run reconnaissance? Since London will be falling down sometime soon? We know a good fish ’n’ chips place.”

“No, thank you, your disgrace.”

“What about you, cherub cheeks?” Beelzebub asked Gabriel.

“I don’t recall fish ’n’chips being a necessary part of reconnaissance. Michael…?”

“Neither is karaoke,” said Michael shortly, arranging folders one by one in a briefcase. He opened the file about New York again. “Although, I’ve heard some call it fun.”

Hastur hadn’t made any move towards the doors. Instead, he was re-vandalizing the No Smoking sign with his usual dedication. While Gabriel found this worrying, he realized Michael might be suggesting some reconnaissance of their own. 

“Ninety-five floors is a long time to wait again,” Dagon reminded him, holding the door to the lift. 

“Right,” said Gabriel, following after Uriel and Sandalphon. “Myriad?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Legion,” called Beelzebub.

“Sure.” Eric grinned at Myriad before anyone else could notice. 

“Michael,” Uriel called. “Your highness, are you coming?”

“I’ll talk to the clerk, then catch up,” Michael answered, still turning over pages worriedly. 

“Hastur?” said Dagon.

“You know I hate those things,” said Hastur. He kicked open the stairwell door. “I’ll take a rain date on the fish, while you’re at it.”

“Suit yourself.” Dagon frowned as the lift doors slid shut, calling, “Well we’ll send it back up, your highness!”

“Thank you,” said Michael. “I’ll be half a minute.”

As the numbers over the lift doors counted down, Michael lay the last folder in the case and shut it. Hastur had let the stairwell door fall shut, but hadn’t left.

“Why are you still here?” Michael asked.

“It’s a bought country.”

“Very funny.”

“Am I laughing?” Hastur countered. He scowled disgruntledly but didn’t meet the prince’s gaze. “Anyway,” he muttered, “when do you want to tour the war criminals—or we can cancel. Not going to matter much longer if you can’t make the time.”

Michael pointedly crossed the foyer to the lift and stood watching the numbers. Hastur didn’t leave. A clock on the wall ticked loudly. 

At last the prince said, “I’m free next week. Name the place.”

“Don’t have one yet. I’ll text you.”

“You have a phone?”

“I’ll steal one.”

“Then don’t bother.” 

Hastur stuffed both hands into his pockets. “You know, I don’t get you.”

“I don’t know if someone who willingly frequents carnage would.” Michael deliberately studied at the faux wooden doors of the lift. They were inlined with fine twists of gold. 

“Lord Beelzebub told me about the Stone.”

“Did they?”

“That was supposed to stop the witches, wasn’t it?”

“It was a possibility.” Michael’s smile twitched down once. “We will get it back to you.”

“I don’t care either way. I don’t need a bauble to do my job, just a fair warning and an hour to make due.”

“Like you did at the rehab center?”

“So you have a backup plan?”

“I’ve been thinking… about the last Horseman.”

“She’s coming out of retirement?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, there’s always Wormwood.”

Michael recognized the name and sighed roughly. “You couldn’t mention that _at_ the meeting?”

“No one asked. I’m a bit lacking in the means to get in touch in any case.”

Michael looked over, confused. “Why?”

“He doesn’t use a phone, doesn’t write. Being up in space, a housecall’s not exactly…” Hastur shrugged. A wince made his point for him. He beat a fist on one tight shoulder to calm a spasm. 

Realization forced Michael’s eyes back to the doors. He swallowed visibly. “Right,” he said. After a moment, he cleared his throat with a small cough. “It wouldn’t be much trouble for us to send someone.”

“Gotta warn you though, he’s an annoying little twig. Try the other one first. Odds are she’s already making rounds. Not that I’m telling you what to do. Just seems logical.”

“It does,” Michael agreed, counting up the floor numbers in his head. “Well, you have a long climb down.” The lift _pinged_ open again. Michael didn’t enter, but held the door. “Unless you want to keep talking here?”

Hastur looked puzzled at that, hovered in the doorway, already smoking his next cigarette like a smokestack. 

“Can’t stand those things,” he explained with a nod. “Surprised you can.”

“Why?”

“Already fell once. I don’t need a replay.”

The door fell shut behind him with a dull slam. 

Michael stepped onto the lift and jabbed the “L” for the lobby. He resolved his grip on the briefcase as his next breath came shakily for some reason, and he shut his eyes.

He kept them closed the whole way down. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) I was tempted to actually let Granny Weatherwax in on the fun, but I feel like she'd take the whole lot on single-handedly and win.  
> (2) The poem cited is part of a longer work by Denise Levertov, “A Tree Telling Of Orpheus.”  
> (3) I think I mentioned in another note, but if anyone’s been wondering about Dagon’s pronouns, I’m working off of how in Episode 1, Dagon’s voice is presented as a deep and male-sounding voice on the Bentley’s radio, while in Episode 6, Dagon’s voice is different and the character seems female-presenting. I figured by this Dagon changes between pronouns as he or she likes.  
> (4) This chapter clocked 30 pages on my word processor. It still feels a bit cut short.


	16. Chapter the Sixteenth – Pride and Pestilence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look who finally posted! (It's meee! Thank you for your patience!)  
>  _Hell has made no effort to include in its torments a mobile phone ringing at six forty-five in the morning._  
>  _Those who’ve experienced this sort of thing might hold strong opinions about that._  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) **Tw/cw:** pronouns being ignored by a minor character; references to pestilence and an unreal epidemic.  
> (2) Sorry this is so late. I’m getting my last setups before things countdown to the end. More Crowley and Aziraphale next week.

* * *

**D** og wanted to help. 

According to Aziraphale, reporting for Angel Radio, there were hellhounds stalking the battlefields. And if there were hellhounds anywhere in the world, there was no reason they wouldn’t arrive in London eventually, and in Tadfield after that. Dog was determined not to be taken by surprise.

Many paws make light work. 

It was June. Adam was often in London at his godfathers’ apartments or bookshop to participate in the Pride festivals, so over the past few weekends, Dog had used the time to spread word via a handy gossip vine in London known as the Twilight Bark. 

That morning the answer arrived in the form of a dozen or so collies, retrievers, terriers, spaniels, and even a boxer—two dozen all told. They showed up in the narrow alley behind the bookshop at dawn. 

There was also a cat named Whiskey Tibbs. She came with the boxer, Vod, and so Dog thought she was probably alright. In fact, Dog had heard that Lilith had a hellcat, and was glad for the unexpected advantage.

_[Author’s note: However, he’d refused to invite the ginger cat from next door in Tadfield. Seeing how she enjoyed watching expensive vases and potted prize roses discover gravity, Dog had no doubt she’d enjoy watching the world burn.]_

After taking a show of paws, Dog commenced the day’s lesson, which covered “hellhound hounding.” He conducted his speech entirely in Dog, with Vod translating for Tibbs as necessary.

Like any dogs, explained Dog, hellhounds could run and fetch and jump and spring. Some could even stand on their hind legs. They were all excellent growlers and snarlers. They had the kind of growls and snarls that put your ears up and your fur on end. A hellhound could be recognized by its red glowing eyes (Dog demonstrated), and by its all too-sharp teeth. 

Most importantly, Dog explained, hellhounds not reformed by good masters like Adam Young were nasty. The _nastiest_. They were, in no uncertain terms, “bad dogs.” 

At this declaration, every tail tucked in misery and a few spaniels whimpered.

But this madness, Dog went on, scoffing and barking as he trotted along the line, was only because their masters were bad demons. Legend had it, hellhounds were the souls of puppies stolen from their litters in the night to be thrown into sacks and drowned.

Dog paused his speech because the Shar-Pei, Snoogie, had sunk into her folds like a whimpering pile of towels. Dog skipped to the more heartening notes of the lesson.

The good news, he announced, turning to walk the line again, was that everyone here knew how to be a good dog—yes, even Whiskey Tibbs—and _that_ would be the first step to driving hellhounds out of the world and, as a result, saving the world single handedly (or pawedly, as the case might have been) from evil.

Dog paused as up on the roof there came a sandy _paff!_ It was followed by language that was in theory incomprehensible because it was in Sanskrit, but in practice perfectly comprehensible because it had the universal flavor found in all curse words through the ages. 

A moment later, Crowley dropped a few steps down the fire escape, looking more calm than most mortals can manage when the ends of their hair are, even momentarily, on fire. He sucked a stung finger in his mouth and pinched a few embers out. Muttering colorfully to himself, he ducked through the bookshop’s back door. 

He returned a moment later, now with two books and a journal under one arm: Heath Robinson’s _Wonderful Contraptions and Extraordinary Inventions_ , the _Journal of Atmospheric Sciences_ (Volume 20), and G.E. Mitton’s _The Maps of Old London_. (The Facsimile Edition, as Aziraphale wouldn’t let the original out of the antique cabinet).

Crowley gave the dogs and Tibbs a polite nod of approval, then mounted the stairs again and disappeared onto the roof.

* * *

**_B_ ** _rrrriiiiiinnnnnggg…_

Hell has made no effort to include in its torments a mobile phone ringing at six forty-five in the morning.

_Brrrriiiiiinnnnnggg…_

Those who’ve experienced this sort of thing might hold strong opinions about that. 

_Brrrriiiiiinnnnnggg…_

One large hand freed itself from a feather-soft duvet, fumbled across the bedside table and knocked down the alarm clock. After this, it found the phone— 

_Brrrrii—_

—which hit the soft carpet next, with a little _thud_.

Gabriel groaned and tried again, sliding out of bed to pick the phone off the floor. He sat up and squinted at the screen, and, when his head hurt too much to read the ID, hit the Talk button. 

“Peace be with you.”

“ _Gabriel?_ ”

“Sandalphon?” 

“ _Where were you?_ ”

Gabriel stared at the upturned clock, then across the room at the line of light under the curtains. Next he realized he was wearing a hotel bathrobe with embossed initials, and his suit hung on a cherrywood clothes rack nearby. The tie was missing. He tried to remember why and failed, but realized he smelled slightly of soap, so at least there was that.

“Where _was_ I?” he repeated back the question. He sucked at a roughness in his mouth. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“ _You weren’t at the sunrise meeting—_ ”

“When?”

“ _At sunrise. Are you alright?_ ”

Gabriel patted a few crucial spots of himself to make sure. He seemed to be all in one piece. But where was his tie?

“ _Gabriel?_ ”

“Sorry, reconnaissance ran late.”

“ _Where are you now?_ ”

“I’m… on Earth. Somewhere”—Gabriel checked the pad of hotel stationary—“English.”

“ _When will you be back?_ ”

“Um.” He glanced at the upturned clock. “Soon.”

“ _You’re sure you’re alright?_ ”

“I’m… I’ll be fine,” said Gabriel. He quickly turned off the phone and dropped it on the bed. Craning his neck he spotted his tie on the other side of the room. It was looped around a doorknob. He looked at the opposite wall. There was another door to the hallway, so that meant… 

Staggering over, he left the tie for the moment and knocked lightly on the doorframe. Immediately, he winced again. Why were noises so noisy?

The door opened and a tall glass of something tomato-red was thrust towards his face.

“I don’t need another drink!” he said, then held his temple and moaned.

Dagon smiled pleasantly. She was wearing a favored leather skirt and a new pronoun since the night before, because she could. Now she stuck a hand on her hip and waggled the glass. “It’s a hangover cure,” she said. “Unless you enjoy that fire in your skull.”

Gabriel grabbed the glass and turned it bottom-side up. Immediately, he wheezed and his eyes watered. Dagon caught the glass before he dropped it. There was an expert grace to the movement, like she kept in regular practice.

“That tastes horrible,” gasped Gabriel.

“It’s hot sauce and raw eggs.”

“Ugh,” Gabriel wiped his mouth. “Why do mortals ever put anything in their mouths?”

“You’re welcome.” Dagon shrugged and strolled back into the room. She picked up a hair pick by the mirror. “It’s your own fault for drinking yourself into a faint. Wine coolers next time?”

“No next time.” Gabriel plucked up the tie and twisted it in his hands. “I don’t even remember what”—His felt his face go cold—“Wait, we didn’t…?”

“No.”

“Oh, thank G-d!” Gabriel coughed as the shout resounded, and muttered, “Um, no offense.”

“None taken.”

“But I have to go. I’m late.” 

“Sure.”

_Bzzzzzt!_

Gabriel hesitated. He peered curiously through the door as something in the other room’s bed moaned, or rather buzzed. 

The Lord of the Flies was so small they’d been lost under the king-sized duvet. Now they rolled off the edge of the bed and onto the floor. From a crouch, they half-staggered, half-crawled to the bathroom without a backwards glance. 

The titular flies, who had been dozing in a line across the top of the headboard, took to the air and danced after. Gabriel heard a toilet seat clink, then there came the unmistakable sound of a digestive tract shifting into reverse. 

Gabriel looked back at Dagon, but since the clerk didn’t seem worried about this, he decided it was nothing to worry about. He tried to think of something to say.

“Thanks, by the way,” he said at last, “for not letting me fly.” He leaned on the doorway and tried to sound nonchalant. Instead, he came across as grateful—because he was.

“The pleasure was ours. You have a lovely singing voice, by the way,” said Dagon. “I think you had the DJ in tears.”

“ _Ave Maria_ is a classic.”

The toilet flushed and the bathroom door swung back. “I can’t believe you don’t know a single hit by Queen,” buzzed Beelzebub. The demon prince wore an oversized nightshirt and spoke around a toothbrush. They managed to lean on their own door frame with such accomplished casual airs, Gabriel almost felt jealous. 

Gabriel sucked the last of the thick, stinging taste from his tongue and wiped at his eyes. “I don’t get out much,” he said. “And good morning to you, too, your lowness.”

“Meh,” said Beelzebub. In two steps, they’d disappeared under the covers again. The flies landed neatly back on the headboard. 

Dagon was chuckling. Fondly, Gabriel realized.

He asked, “Do you two do reconnaissance often?”

“Recently, yes,” said Dagon.

“Why?”

Dagon set down the pick and started braiding a mermaid tail. “Because we don’t have much time left.”

“You’ll have eternity.”

“An angel would think that,” Beelzebub muttered loudly from under the duvet.

Dagon explained, “You get home late, and what’s the worst that will happen? Michael might scold you.”

“Well, your boss is here,” Gabriel said.

“Ha!” huffed the lump under the covers.

“ _Our_ boss is not,” Dagon translated.

Gabriel frowned. It was early, and his head was still jackhammering, but a thought of import wheedled its way through the noise. “He doesn’t know…?”

“About the plan?” For a moment, Dagon looked wary. 

“About you two?”

Dagon ahemed. “Does the Almighty encourage love?”

“Of course, but what does that have to do wi—Oh.” 

“Now he gets it,” buzzed Beelzebub.

Gabriel shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. Then he said “Oh,” again. “I thought he didn’t get involved.”

“Because She doesn’t?” asked Dagon.

“That’s by design. Free will and choice and…and—” 

Beelzebub slapped back the covers with a scowl. “And here I thought you had to be drunk to talk out of your ass.”

Gabriel’s jaw dropped. “There’s no need for that kind of language!”

Beelzebub grinned toothily.

Gabriel admitted, “Actually, we only speculate and, well, we don’t speculate much.” 

“I’ve noticed,” said the prince.

Gabriel turned back to his room. With a snap of his fingers he’d donned his suit in place of the bathrobe. He didn’t want to meet the prince’s knowing stare (which would have been pretty if demon looks couldn’t actually kill), so he retied his tie to buy some time. He muttered belatedly, “I would think he’d appreciate what you all went through for him.”

“Is that sympathy?” Beelzebub teased.

“For a devil?”

“ _There’s_ a song we should do next time,” said Dagon, conjuring another hangover cure. This one had a curly straw and a festive paper umbrella. 

Gabriel turned back around just as Dagon sat down on the bed to hand it over. Beelzebub sat up and promptly dropped their head on the back of the other demon’s shoulder. 

It was such a simple, intimate sight, that Gabriel was startled all over again. He gestured a bit helplessly. “You two… It’s a bit of a surprise.”

“You probably don’t understand how the least loved creatures in the universe would still be capable of love,” Beelzebub suggested. “That makes two of us.”

“Understanding was never my strong suit, I won’t deny it.” 

“Well”—The prince shrugged and sipped the drink—“glad we agree on something.”

Gabriel turned down his collar. “Faith isn’t about understanding.”

“Really?” 

“It’s about trust.” Gabriel glanced between the two of them, trying to ignore a strange tightness in his throat. “The world is finite. Her will is infinite. The math says everything.”

“That is the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say, birdbrain,” said Beelzebub.

“I have my moments.” Gabriel flashed his best grin. “Anyway, I believe you. And…” He paused as he realized how sincere his next words would be. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” said Dagon.

Beelzebub gave her a playful slap on the shoulder. “Don’t encourage him. He might start to like us.”

Gabriel cleared his throat. The warm rolling waves of love coming off the two of them were impossible but undeniable. It made him feel a bit better about everything. Well, not everything. But about the moment, certainly. It was a nice moment. 

He said, “Well, I’ve got a lightning bolt to catch. On the bright side, if everything works out…”

“And what if it does?” asked Dagon.

Gabriel realized he didn’t have anything good to say, which for a messenger was rather embarrassing. “I guess you’d still have to deal with… him.”

“Yes.” 

Beelzebub twirled the umbrella. “Don’t keep Michael waiting, cherub cheeks.”

“Right.” Gabriel plucked his phone off the bed and stuffed it into his breast pocket. “Remind me, what did we find out during reconnaissance last night?”

“The Queen’s Head has the best fish ’n’ chips,” said Dagon.

Beelzebub polished off their drink with a loud slurp. 

“Good enough.” Gabriel nodded, and the prince stuck out their tongue. “You two, um…, take care.”

“We must do,” said Beelzebub.

“So, same time next week?” asked Dagon.

Gabriel almost reminded them that he’d said no, then he changed his mind. “Sure. I’ll buy this time.”

“That’s the spirit.” Dagon waved as Gabriel shut the door. 

Gabriel’s smile fell apart. 

He dropped his forehead on the doorpost and groaned. Why were things getting so complicated? Since the Torch had come into Heaven’s possession, he wasn’t just _doing_ things he normally wouldn’t do. He was _thinking_ thoughts he normally wouldn’t _think_.

The faint smell of smoke caught his nostrils. Looking up, Gabriel realized his fingertips had left searing lines on the wall. He pulled the hand back with a jerk.

He hadn’t even visited the Torch that morning. 

Or the morning before.

Once he was sure the heat was gone, Gabriel adjusted his tie reflexively and waved a hand to open the window. He waved again to charge the room’s bill to the credit account of H&H Holdings (Holdings), Ltd., and the next moment shot skyward. 

Towards home. 

* * *

**D** agon watched through the window as the sky cleared behind Gabriel’s departure.

“Stupid oaf,” muttered Beelzebub miserably. They set aside their glass and fell back on the pillows. 

“Do you think we should tell him?” asked Dagon.

“Not yet.” The demon prince shut their eyes and squirmed irritably around a still-tossing stomach. “We need to know whether it’s worth the risk.”

“And whether we can trust him?”

“That too.” Beelzebub groaned. 

“But the devil will have our heads if Michael doesn’t.”

“On pikes,” Beelzebub agreed. “If we have to start trusting angels, the world really is coming to an end.”

* * *

**T** he dish was called "Hamburg steak," after a town in Germany, but the meat had been farmed in North America. It contained beef and pork and numerous pleasing spices, not to mention a hefty measure of fat and cholesterol. 

It also contained cortisol, and estrogen, and the remnants of some very strong antibiotics. 

"I'm so tired all the time."

Two people sat at the table. The woman who had spoken smiled weakly. She added, "With Albert home all hours, I guess I'm running ragged. Thank G-d for my Neil though. Still looking for work, but he keeps busy.”

“He’s helping then?” asked the other.

“Oh no, but he loves his research. You know, he says a person could get pulled under by all sorts of propaganda, without research."

All her life, Sarah Kirsche had been told to smile. She felt comfortable knowing smiling meant she was approved of. If you were approved of, you could be kind, and Sarah wanted to be kind.

The other person at the table, who was doing most of the listening, was called Dr. White. Once, she had been called Antonine Blanc. Another time, Collie Lucas. She was soft-spoken and very calm all the time. It came with practice. 

She had had a lot of practice, and not the one people expected from doctors.

Sarah cut into her steak. She said, "They just want our fear so they can do as they please. Not like my senator. Goodness, this is good. You're sure you don't want anything?" 

"No,” said Dr. White. "I'm already eating."

Sarah Kirsche was sure that Dr. White had misspoken. It was unkind to correct mistakes, so Sarah said, "Oh, that's alright. It's pricey here. I guess it's going on the credit card, but I'll pick up more hours at work, I suppose, once I find my Albert a proper daycare. I know some public ones are open now, but we need to see our Albert in a better place.”

“Better than what?” Dr. White looked mildly curious.

“Well, Neil says the public ones are full of wards of the state. I don't want my Albert mingling with wards of the state. Their parents are who-knows-where. Crime is a disease.”

“You think so?”

Sarah cut another bite of steak and spoke around it. "My Neil showed me the web page. A doctor’s blog. Very sensible. My senator’s vowed to up the war on crime. Oh, I know he started out on the wrong foot, but Father Aimsbury said he's different now. He showed me the church service on Dove TV where they prayed for him and everything. It's the media that twists everything. You can't trust it." 

"Which media?"

" _The_ media. It's all organized. I used to study that kind of thing a lot in college, before I had Alfred."

Dr. White sipped her ice water.

"Let me get you a drink at least. The daiquiris are delicious." 

Thank you, but I avoid alcohol like the plague," said Dr. White. 

"Suit yourself. I don’t judge." Sarah's fork and knife squeaked as she cut another bit of the plump burger and pushed it around in the gravy. "That's another thing. Look at everyone here. You think a restaurant would be this crowded if there were really something wrong? Overreaction if you ask me. All media hype."

Across the room, someone dropped their fork and ran to the bathroom. 

“I just don't have the time,” Sarah went on. “I wish I had the time. I honestly don’t know how I made the time today when you invited me, but…” 

Actually, Sarah still didn’t know how she’d made the time.

Sarah revised, “Well, anyway, thank G-d my pastor's so educated. He did a year of seminary in the Philippines, you know. Have you been abroad?”

“Oh yes," said Dr. White, "many times.”

"My brother went abroad to work. Not sure he's ever coming back. Gone native. There's a reason they call them 'ex-pats', I suppose. But Albert loves to see him on the video phone. Oh, I meant to ask, do you have any children?"

There was a clink across the room as a patron threw back a glass of water and a pair of aspirin. At the same time, a waitron rushed past them from the restroom. He hurried to the front desk and whispered something to the maitre d.

Dr. White took another sip of water. "I had one. They've passed." 

"They? Ah, not to speak ill on the dead, but that must have been hard for you in more ways than one.”

“It was hard in all ways.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. How did it happen, if it's not too hard to say?"

"They were stabbed at an airbase in Oxfordshire."

"Terrorists, you poor thing." Sarah gasped, and waited a moment out of respect before she gathered more potatoes. "This is so good." She tried to sound apologetic. 

"It's a risk."

"Oh, yes. It must be hard though. Let me get you something. It's cheap for me, really, if I use the card. I don't know how they can make it so cheap."

"I’m set.”

"Like I said, I don't have time to look these things up. I used to think adults were too busy, but now that I'm older I realize it's impossible not to be, the other party ruining our economy, making us work, and they say we're privileged. I don't feel privileged sometimes. Working all hours. I have so much on my own plate."

There wasn't much left on her own plate now. 

"I wish I could do more, but now I'm older, I realize how important it is that we rely on each other. Thank goodness for my Neil keeping busy. And Father Aimsbury. Oh, but I really should be picking up my Albert from Mother’s. Where does the time go? I'm really sorry to hear about the loss of your children… child. How long...?"

"Three years ago. We'd been out of touch."

Sarah wiped her hands on a napkin, then unconsciously used the same napkin on her suddenly perspiring forehead. "That's a shame. A lot of young people are. I'm very careful who I follow—on the social media, I mean. Can’t have someone putting the wrong thoughts in your head. You can bet I don't let my Albert watch the TV these days. He's going to live in a world without fear." 

"I wouldn't count on it." 

"Oh, you poor thing. You should join me at church sometime. It would make you feel better, being in touch with such giving people."

"I do believe it is better to give than to receive," said Dr. White.

“Oh, so do I. That’s one of my favorite Bible verses.”

Dr. White finished her water and, satisfied, shook hands with Sarah and thanked her for passing on such helpful thoughts. 

"Neil has a whole blog about that thing I mentioned. He keeps busy.”

“Perhaps he could be paid to work as a writer.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be nice?” Sarah smiled with all her might. “Father Aimsbury says it’s wrong to complain about one’s spouse, and he’s right of course, but that would be very… nice. Your next campaign is when again?"

"It’s already started."

"Well, you know if you're a fan of the Bible, you have my support." 

"Do tell your friends."

"We've a counterprotest brunch this Sunday. You should come, shake some hands." 

"Shake some for me."

"Of course. It really puts me at ease to meet a politician who listens to everyday people like me. Thank you for the invitation."

"Thank you."

A pair of paramedics entered by the front door. The maitre d pointed towards the restroom and they spoke in hushed tones. The customer at the far table dropped his half-emptied water glass. He collapsed onto the floor, clutching his stomach. 

Sarah was troubled. “Glad I didn't get what he had,” she said.

Dr. White didn’t comment.

In eight days, Sarah Kirsche would be admitted to the hospital for symptoms like the flu, and would be told by her pastor to praise G-d that by chance the doctors had noticed a lump just under her left breast during the examination. It would be treatable, assuming her hormones responded well to the medicine. And assuming she survived the ebola. 

Sarah felt reassured, although it did not work out. She did not see Dr. White again (though the other had attended the brunch quietly while others were shaking hands). For some reason, the pale-eyed woman often came to her mind in hospital. Sarah took this to mean she should pray for her. 

"Ask and you shall receive," she quoted her favorite verse when her family came to visit.

She died in her sleep the following day. She was fondly remembered by her church as a positive person, right up to the end—a real trooper, walking around the hospital, volunteering to lay hands on the other patients in prayer, even those whose politics she had to educate them about. She was survived by her son and, briefly, by her mother and husband.

Albert became a ward of the state. 

* * *

**O** utside the restaurant, an ambulance had parked beside a very unique motorbike. The motorbike’s frame had been painted the color of yellowing bone. At least, one assumed it was paint. Overall, the vehicle looked—what did the younger humans say these days? Oh, yes: _Sick_.

Standing at a lamppost nearby, the archangel Michael was checking his compact mirror. The total number of souls in the area had just dropped by one and there was a higher amount of prayer than usual all of a sudden, including from a professed atheist. Michael sent a miracle his way, even if it wouldn’t matter in a few months, for old times’ sake.

“Hello, Michael,” said Pestilence.

Just Michael. Never Prince Michael. Not Lord Michael. Pestilence talked to Azazel the same way, but that was different, wasn’t it? Azazel was an old friend. 

Michael swallowed in a suddenly scratchy throat as he put the compact away and looked towards the voice. The so-called Dr. White held the door for two paramedics and a gurney going out. It was the second one that hour.

They both watched as the ambulance pulled away, sirens blaring. 

Angels and biblical enthusiasts know that Pestilence is a punishment. Only angels know what she’s a punishment for. With the Industrial Revolution, Pestilence had really come into her own. Now all it took was one plucky virion waiting to break in a new pair of genes—and soon the slaughterhouses and hospital wards started looking horridly similar. 

Michael switched on his smile. “Pestilence,” he said. “What brings you here?”

“What brings me anywhere?”

“I mean,” said Michael, “I thought I’d find you still in retirement.”

“I am. Are you here to catch up on all the good times?”

“I’m here to ask if you’re willing to come out of retirement.”

Pestilence turned her head on one side. “Why would I do that?” 

“The world is going to end,” said Michael. “Again.”

“I received no message.”

“Well, I am a messenger.”

“I thought you outsource that sort of thing these days.” Pestilence held the door for a couple entering the restaurant. She smiled, first at them, and then back at Michael, who watched her hand fall away from the handle and shuddered a little.

“I already have plans,” said Pestilence presently.

“If the world ends, do they matter?”

“You think we should work together?”

“I know it’s been some time—”

“Quite some time since Jerusalem, yes.” Pestilence did not say the “J” of “Jerusalem” in a modern way, because it really had been some time. “Good times.”

“I’d disagree”

“And where is your shadow?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“That demon friend of yours?”

Realizing who she meant, Michael’s sore throat clenched and his forehead broke a sweat. “I… think you’re mistaken,” he said. “He wasn’t a friend. And besides that, he’s… dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Michael didn’t like how personal this was getting, at least for him. He asked, “Don’t you want revenge?”

“Are you trying to tempt me?” Pestilence leaned forward, just enough that Michael leaned back. “You must truly miss him.”

As subtly as he could, Michael passed a hand across his forehead to check for fever. Then he said, “I only mean it’s the humans’ fault that Pollution is dead. It seemed right to offer you a chance at justice for them.”

“The worst I can do to humans is already the best I can do,” said Pestilence. “I am at peace, Michael.” The chalk-white eyes narrowed. “Are you?”

“I will be when all this is over.”

“You poor thing,” said Pestilence. The words sounded less kind from her than from Sarah Kirsche. Pestilence clucked her tongue, then considered the city bustling around them. “I have walked the markets and abattoirs of every land on this globe, Michael. And I have followed the point of more than one archangel’s sword when judgment was due. But I’m afraid I won’t be joining you this time.” 

“Why not?”

“For the same reason I retired,” said Pestilence. “When it comes right down to it, I’m not about endings. I’m about change. For good or ill.”

“Mostly ill, I would think.”

“Well, yes,” said Pestilence. “But farewell, old friend. Do get some rest. You look tired. And I know where that goes.”

She patted Michael’s shoulder and he felt a sudden wave of nausea, followed by a spinning headache. The next thing he heard was the motorbike coughing like a terminal lung as it drove away. Michael realized he was on the pavement.

Clutching at the lamppost, Michael pulled himself up and tried to shake off the malaise. He reached for his phone. It buzzed before he could dial. The screen flashed an unlisted number. 

Where Heaven’s lists were concerned, that only meant one thing. 

“Hello, Hastur.”

“ _You don’t sound too good, your highness. Take a plunge?_ ”

Michael ignored the jab. “Do you have Wormwood’s last coordinates on file?”

“ _Pestilence said no?_ ”

“She said a lot of things.”

“ _I’ll fax it up. Are we still on for this week? Sounds like you need cheering up_.”

“I probably should postpone.”

“ _No skin off my nose. I’ll keep something warm for you. What would you like? War criminal? Orphanage foreclosure specialist?_ ”

“I’ll let you surprise me. Incidentally, did you steal the phone you’re using?”

 _“You want me to terrorize the mortal twice by returning it?_ ”

Michael made sure his groan was loud enough to grate the other end of the line. “I’ll be in touch.”

“ _Don’t do anything I would._ ”

Michael hung up without dignifying this quip with an answer. 

Ligur also had enjoyed puns. A bit too much. Ligur had had a lot to say about Hastur, too, Michael recalled. None of it had been good, but with demons that was the highest compliment, really. He grew on you, Ligur liked to say fondly, like a wart. 

Michael sighed, squinted against the headache, and looked at the sky. It looked… wrong. He shook his head. He was clearly baking under a fever. He needed to go home and see Raphael. Enough politics for one day. A scolding from the head surgeon or even Ariel would be almost comforting.

Old friends indeed. 

* * *

**H** eaven’s Library is arranged according to the infinite decimal system. The knowledge of Good and Evil might be stored in an apple, but all the other information is kept in the Library. As a result, it was easy to get lost. 

Not that Sefriel said so, but Uriel imagined that was why he respectfully followed in her and Sandalphon’s wake for the entire tour. 

“We don’t often have inspections,” the head librarian remarked presently. 

“It is something we could do more regularly if you like,” said Uriel.

“Times being what they are,” added Sandalphon.

“Oh, I’m sure anything could happen,” Sefriel agreed.

_[Author’s note: Sefriel firmly believed this. The Library of Heaven could function as it did because infinity is not a matter of size, but detail. A decimal can go on as long as it likes. With so many options anything can happen. If anyone asked Sefriel, “Up to how many angels can dance, or otherwise pass time, on the head of a pin?” his succinct answer would have been, “all of them.”]_

Uriel let her finger slide along a shelf as she walked. She tapped a gap in the wall of quartos around “D” and shared a glance with Sandalphon. Neither remarked on it. 

“How often would you say anyone checks out books here?” Sandalphon asked instead.

“Oh, most visitors like to linger at the end of the week and catch up on reading in the quiet,” said Sefriel. “The researchers are down here most often: Smiths and architects, mostly, and the healers.”

“That makes sense,” said Uriel calmly. They turned a corner into a study area where olive wood desks stood back to back. Each desk had a blotter, a set of ink and quills, a few pencils, and a small notepad. A few lights drifted without lanterns over the row, providing soft yellow light. 

Walking along the length of desks on each side, Uriel and Sandalphon checked the drawers, one after another. In the top drawer, there were always large sheets of writing paper, small packs of labels, sealing wax, and gold paperclips with a tasteful wing design. The second drawer held tools like a compass and a ruled straight-edge (adjustable to any standard of measurement), a magnifying glass, scissors, and even a stapler.

“These are well-equipped,” Sandalphon remarked.

“Yes, it expedites our work if everything is standardized,” Sefriel explained, still following.

Uriel stopped at the second drawer of one desk and said, “Sefriel, you’re missing a stapler.”

“Oh? Well, sometimes things do wander despite our efforts.”

“Of course.” Uriel opened the last drawer which contained a few discarded odds and ends, including an old nameplate, which she took note of. She thought to leave off checking the rest, but something nagged at the back of her mind. She walked to the end of the row and something under the light caught her eye. She picked up the notepad on the blotter, and turned it to the light.

“What are these used for?” she asked.

“For making notes,” Sefriel answered. Then, perhaps because this seemed too simple an answer, he elaborated, “So that larger volumes can remain in the library.”

“Oh, I see,” said Uriel. “You mean larger volumes like atlases, or encyclopedias?”

“That is exactly correct, your glory.”

“Not letters?”

“Letters, your glory?”

“I imagine it’s odd to sign one’s own notes.”

“Well, the pages could surely be used for anything,” said Sefriel accommodatingly, looking puzzled. Uriel turned the notepad towards the light again with narrowed eyes, and he wrung his hands a little. “Is something the matter?” 

Uriel asked, “Might I take a page for something?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” Uriel smiled and carefully removed the top blank page of the notebook which, so far as Sefriel knew, had been sitting otherwise idle for months. 

She didn’t write on it. In fact, she didn’t even fold it away, only tucked it neatly into the inner breast pocket of her jacket. After the tour, she stood in the hall with Sandalphon and ran the side of a pencil lead _[Author’s note: technically, gold]_ across the page, revealing the indentations in its surface. 

It was shorthand, mostly, and light enough so as to be nearly illegible. But the page numbers had been made with hard strokes. And the signature was unmistakable. 

They both studied it.

“But what’s it mean?” asked Sandalphon.

“It means Michael is going to have to speak to Raphael again,” said Uriel. 

“And after that?” asked Sandalphon. “Do you think Azazel will get a new roommate?”

“No,” said Uriel gravely. “I don’t think there’s any excuse for this.”

* * *

**G** abriel was pacing alone by the East Gate, staring at his hands and letting a small blizzard form around him like a safety blanket. 

“I’m not falling,” he reminded himself. “I know exactly who I am and what I am. I’m an angel. I’m the archangel Gabriel, and I am _not falling_.”

Saying this made him feel better. A little better.

“There was only one Fall. There’s never been another one. Even Azazel is fine. Technically. Aside from the goats. And I still have faith. And truth. And love. Demons can’t…” He grimaced. “Turns out they can,” he muttered. “But I still have faith!”

The shout echoed between stars.

Gabriel had been pacing all morning, because he didn’t feel well enough to find Michael yet. He wasn’t even sure what he’d say. He wasn’t even sure where Michael was. Odds were he wasn’t here. Odds were he was busy. He was always busy. He never… 

“Stop,” he said, and he did, standing in the middle of the groove he was wearing in the tiles. “Stop feeling so…”

What? The silence seemed to offer words, words he didn’t like. Bitter? Greedy? Angry?

Jealous? 

“I’m not jealous of demons, especially demons of Sloth and, I don’t know, Lust? Demons are evil. And I’m not.” 

He felt an odd prodding at his conscience, again out of the silence.

“I’m not proud either.”

No one answered him, but the silence reminded him of something, though it didn’t make sense. It reminded him of very patient, very kind… eyes. Eyes with a look that knew everything about him before even he did, that knew he wasn’t good with his own words and always helped him choose them. 

“I’m not proud,” he repeated. “And I’m not angry, and I’m not greedy. Those are all… sins.”

He clamped a hand over his mouth, swallowed hard. The word felt worse in his mouth than the hot sauce. 

No accusing voice boomed out of the ether. No words of judgment claimed he’d forgotten his Maker. Gabriel dropped his hand and took a few breaths to calm down. Was it okay then?

“But I am scared,” he whispered. “Everything else is just… temptation, right?”

Gabriel’s head throbbed a little. He realized he’d been wearing out more than the tiles and sat down heavily on the steps of the gate. These were particularly pearly gates, accented with gemstones. He’d sat here with Michael watching Uriel raise the sun for the first time. It was a good memory. He clung to it. It reminded him of something else and he clung to that too.

“ _I still have my name_.” 

Saying this out loud made him feel better. A lot better. 

He still had his name. 

Everyone knew the Fallen had given up theirs.

* * *

**A** riel reported Raphael was out for research, so Michael saw Tifriel at the apothecary near reception. One fever-fighting chord and an anti-nausea progression later, and he’d recovered from the meeting with Pestilence, at least on the physical side of things. He set out for the administration office of military affairs, one of the less neglected but still crowded desks of his station. The day’s folders were piled notably higher than they’d been the day before. 

Michael sat down and tried to get started, but found himself nodding. He sat back rubbing his eyes. Corporations were bothersome. It was easy to see how the Gnostic heresy had obsessed over a fantasy world without them. 

These days, looking at the signature on the cover letter of the most recent folder was practically a formality, but Michael did it anyway because he liked the rhythm of the work. He always had. At least he couldn’t fault guardians for getting their paperwork in on time—though it might not hurt to tell Jaelle to scale it back a bit. He smiled, then frowned, remembering when his brother had told him the same thing.

_“Phanuel’s putting you through a wringer.”_

_“Through a… what?”_

* * *

“It’s a thing for laundry.”

“That’s… good then?”

Lucifer rolled his eyes but chuckled. He stood in the door of the Recorder’s office, glancing at the ceiling where the Watcher reports trickled down on ticker tape as fast as the Scribes above could write them. Each piled in a neat little spiral on an empty desk below. Except one desk was still occupied. 

“You’re hair’s a mess again, dear brother," said Lucifer.

“I don’t care.” 

It was midday, maybe. The general consensus on time (lowercase “t”) had yet to be determined. Apparently Uriel was working on something with Lailah and the Star Architects for the next day. Whatever the case, the days in Heaven would last as long as they needed to, before the whole machine of it was wound up and let go, and every day there were reports to write. Even an archangel had a day-job between delivering messages. 

Michael wrote another line of shorthand out into long. He was aware of Lucifer’s grin about the word “wringer,” and he blushed under it. He must have answered incorrectly for a grin like that. He’d have to consult the _Library’s Dictionary of Upcoming Terms_ again. Lucifer was always ahead of him in words.

The firstborn angel never grinned in public. Grins weren’t particularly graceful and that was how he liked to carry himself around everyone else. Still, it was something a “brother” did (the term being fairly new at this point), and Michael knew no other reason for it.

The prince asked, “Where’s your sword today?”

“In the armory.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t need it.”

Lucifer spun his own sword idly under one hand. Many of the angels who’d been on the front line were carrying weapons today, as a kind of celebration of the victory, he’d explained, but this sword wasn’t from the armory. He’d had Pekkiel make it special that morning. 

It would be called a _scimitar_ . Lucifer knew all the words, far more than Michael knew, but then, Lucifer was the prince. Knowledge was one thing he did better than anyone. Other angels _did_ things and _made_ things, but Lucifer could tell them _what_ to do and _how_ to make things, and sometimes even _why_.

Now and then, the prince lifted the blade to nudge the growing pile of ticker tape back onto Michael’s desk. “You need a break. You don’t see anyone else working this hard.”

“I’m not anyone else.”

“You should get your sword. Bring it down when you’re done. I’m starting something.”

“But you’re here.”

“I’ve _started_ something. It wouldn’t be the same without you.” 

Michael finally set down his self-reinking quill. It would be a long time before child psychologists figured out birth-order dynamics, but the first middle child knew facial expressions and logic were a peacekeeping move, and before his first day of existence was out, he had learned how to be unreadable. Not that he thought of it as diplomacy. It just helped him in his place in the world.

Michael suggested, “Another sea serpent?”

“No. A game.”

“A game. With swords?”

“And spears, if you like.”

“A game with things that kill sea serpents.”

“It’ll be fun, and you’ll be good at it.”

“Maybe later.”

“ _Miiiiichael_.” Lucifer sauntered between the empty desks. He leaned over Michael to block the lamplight. “Say yes.”

“Move.”

“I don’t want to move.”

“Move, or I’ll tell Mother.”

“Just say yes and I’ll move.”

Michael squinted and wrote stubbornly for a few more seconds. “Phanuel might have more work for me this afternoon.”

“You like Phanuel more than me?”

“Liking doesn’t work that way.”

“Say you’ll come. Then tell Phanuel that you can’t do whatever she wants, because _I_ said you _had_ to come.”

Michael squinted again, reached past Lucifer, and carefully freed another bit of ticker tape. “Are you saying I have to come?”

“I’m asking you to come.”

“So it’s not orders,” Michael said, and plucked up his pen. “That would be telling stories.”

“But I’m the prince.”

“Are you asking me to come because you’re my brother or because you’re the prince?”

“Yes.”

“Not good enough.”

“Ouch.”

Michael wrote out another line of shorthand and smiled a little at the tape’s note. Apparently the lilies were making quite an impression. Uriel had been worried about their debut.

“Fine,” said Lucifer. “I’m telling you to come, because I want you to come.”

Michael turned over the page. 

“Michael?”

“Move, or I’ll tell Mother,” Michael said again.

“You don’t think She has better things to do?” But Lucifer leaned back. “Fine, I’m asking.” He sighed loudly and twirled his sword again. 

“Hm.”

“Gabriel will be there.”

Michael was not a psychologist. The ticker tape was the only sound in the room for a long moment.

“Okay,” said Michael. “But I have work in the morning.”

“You have work every morning.”

“It’s important.”

“What, writing things down that happen today, things that only happen today, things that won’t happen tomorrow?”

“It’s important how things are written down,” said Michael. “For a prince you really should care more.”

“Know a lot of princes?”

“I know you well enough.”

“I know what words and letters are for, Michael. But… fine. I’ll send Darfriel up with your sword. He’ll show you where we’re meeting.”

“Thank you.”

“In an hour. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.”

“And do something with your hair.” Lucifer reached across the desk and tousled the long curls.

Michael batted him away. “I told you, I don’t care.” 

“Suit yourself. He strode towards the door, but turned back. “Oh, but no armor.”

Michael’s pen stopped. “What?”

“It’s a game,” said Lucifer. “No sea serpents to worry about.” 

Michael put down the pen again. “Will Raphael be there?”

“Are you scared?”

“No.”

“Are you telling stories?” There was that grin again.

“ _No_ ,” said Michael. And it wasn’t technically a lie, even if it would have been a moment ago. “And a prince shouldn’t either.”

Lucifer laughed and left, and Michael felt like it didn’t matter how good his words were, they would never be enough that his brother would do more than he pleased. 

But maybe that was something about older brothers too. 

* * *

**A** knock on the door woke Michael before he realized he’d fallen asleep. He pushed himself up in his chair and affixed his smile. 

_A different dream._ He was relieved, just for a moment—he nearly forgot the angel in the doorway—but next felt more troubled than before. 

“Sorry, your grace,” said Jaelle. “Is this a busy time?”

Michael noted the folder under Jaelle’s arm. By the look of her armor, she’d just come from the field. Her helmet was dangling off her arm. Comforted to be back in a better moment, Michael shook his head and waved her in.

“It’s fine, captain. No time isn’t.”

Jaelle carefully set the folder on top of the rest, then considered the pile. Her eyes marbled a concerned shade of blue. “Would you like help filing these, your highness?”

“Maybe we can put you on secretarial work in your retirement,” Michael suggested, smiling a bit wider to show it was in jest. “Is that today’s report?”

“Yes, the, um, earthquake went about how we’d expected.”

“And you’re all in one piece?”

“Everyone’s well, thank you, your grace.”

Michael turned open the cover, noticed a discolored page halfway through the packet. “What’s this?”

“That?” Jaelle’s voice pitched a little, then shifted into what Michael thought of these days as her “practiced in front of the mirror at least fifty times” voice. She said, “I recently noticed a missing page number in our basic report forms, so I’ve been pulling backup copies from the archives. Sorry if it’s unorthodox.”

“Don’t apologize if nothing’s wrong.” 

“Sorry.” Jaelle flinched. “I mean…”

“No. That one’s fine. I just mean don’t apologize for doing the right thing, especially not to me.”

For some reason, this made the captain look all the more nervous. 

_What am I going to do with her?_ It was a strange question to ask about someone who hadn’t been more than another star in the sky a few weeks prior, but Jaelle was in a story now, and it was a familiar one, too familiar. Michael wanted to push it back into the past, but the past was where the pain was, and so here he was, trying to end the story a different way, because things were different now. They had to be. 

It might turn out alright. 

Burying all these thoughts behind a smile, Michael flipped to the page and scanned the header of the insert, then he read it again with new interest.

“Is something wrong?” asked Jaelle.

“You said you have more of these?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Can you bring them to the observation deck in an hour or so?”

“To the… Yes, your grace, if you wish. But why—?”

“Michael?” Gabriel was in the doorway. He looked out of breath. “Do you have a second? Maybe a minute?”

His violet eyes were shading silver. Michael very slowly handed the folder back to Jaelle. “Excuse me a moment, captain.” 

Michael stepped out into the hall and nudged Gabriel out of sight. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “What happened with reconnaissance?”

Gabriel set his hands on Michael’s shoulders and forced a desperate smile. He kept his voice low. “Well, do you remember how we weren’t going to bother Raphael about any of this?”

“Yes…”

“I think maybe we should.”

“Okay. But why— _Ow!_ ”

Michael flinched back, and Gabriel clasped his hands to his chest, his eyes wrecked with a color that darkened his own, and the silver marbled like a writhing thing.

“What was that?”

“Are you alright?” Gabriel asked at the same time.

“I’m fine. I…” Michael brushed at his clothes and looked at his fingertips. A bit of red flickered into nothing. “No harm done. But…” He pried Gabriel’s hands from his chest and cupped them in his own for study.

“Sorry.” Gabriel started to back away, but Michael drew him back. “Michael, I think I should go to the healers wing.” 

“That would cause a stir.” Michael wrapped Gabriel’s hands in his own and concentrated. There was a soft crackle of frost and ice particles shimmered just a moment in the air. The red fire shrunk back like a scared anemone. Michael didn’t let go until it fled completely. “Better?” he whispered. 

“How did you…?”

“I didn’t ask the demons for a tool I hadn’t researched,” said Michael. He thought, without meaning to, of his brother’s spinning sword. He dusted ice crystals from his hands. “If the Torch didn’t have some side effects, it wouldn’t be nearly as effective on humans. We should check in with Uriel and Sandalphon, just in case.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Is something wrong with me?”

_“Are you telling stories?”_

“ _No_ ,” Michael said again, firmly. “Come to the observation deck. We’ll all need to discuss this. Jaelle?”

The captain leaned her head out the doorway. Not too quickly of course, since it was polite to not be eavesdropping. “Yes, your highness?”

“Would you mind finding Raphael on your way? Something’s come up.”

* * *

**T** he streets were still buzzing in Soho after a full day of Pride and the bookshop was no exception. Dog was sleeping by the fire after a long day’s work. Adam and The Them were sharing photos of their be-rainbowed (and family-friendly) reenactment of Eugène Delacroix’s _Liberty Leading the People_ , and Anathema and Newt, who’d come along to help with the car rides home, sat on chairs in the main shop watching last-minute customers come and go. They were also making sure the angel’s more coveted books stayed on their shelves.

This year the locals marveled that the owner of such a strange and dusty bookshop managed such convincing rainbow wings. It had been Pepper’s idea: A bit of Kool-aid and hair conditioner. They’d spent the morning on them. 

From the roof, Crowley heard a few passersby start referring to “Mr. Fell” as the Angel of Soho and, _Well_ , he thought, _it really is about time_.

With a sigh, Crowley dropped back on the roof pavement and stretched his back. He’d much rather have been downstairs. He let _Contraptions and Extraordinary Inventions_ fall open on his chest and stared up at the evening sky. The color started to fade as the sun fell west. His eyes were keen enough to see the first of the stars too bright for city lights to wash out. 

They’d all been called stars back in the day. “Fixed stars” in the distance. “Wandering stars” circling the sun. Or the globe, as the people imagined back then. Crowley liked to think of them all as “old stars.” He’d led the meeting on how blue- and red-shift were going to work. Long-term planning had been the order of the day with lightspeed. You could look back in time, looking at stars.

It still hurt to think that far back. It didn’t hurt to see a job well done though.

“Alright.” He sat up and closed the book. He glared across the roof pavement at the Philosopher’s Stone. “You’re a stubborn one, but I already knew that.”

Crowley scratched out a line to break the glowing sigil, and quickly packed up. In the air over the Stone, the drifting schematics of light slowly fell apart like windswept cobwebs. 

The biggest problem about saving the world was the world was people. It belonged to them in the oldest sense of the word. It had _been long_ with them. The angels had sworn subservience to them. The demons had lost their heavenly status to them. Humans were the top of the heap. You could try to cage them, certainly, but put up a sign that said, “Danger: Falling Brimstone,” and the paint wouldn’t have time to dry before the first ones were over the wall. It was the apple tree all over again.

Crowley sighed loudly. “Call it off,” he said aloud, as he sometimes did alone in his apartment. “They have to do what you say. You didn’t abandon them. If you wanted him to win, why did you cast us out? Why did you cast me out?”

There was no answer, but he didn’t expect one. Not anymore. Fine. It was fine. Let Her do as She liked.

Rolling over onto his knees, Crowley gathered the books and journal, along with the second edition of what he’d started thinking of as Raphael’s quarto. He glanced west at the evening star, and then went through what had become a daily ritual: Turning the pages until his brother’s letter came up, and then staring at it indecisively. 

“Nothing left to say, is there?” he muttered. “Whole world’s coming to an end, what could there be left to say?”

It had been a long day. Somehow Crowley managed to win the battle with himself this time. He plucked out the page and turned it open. He almost didn’t look at it. He felt his eyes recoil, even with all the despairing encouragement from the rest of him. 

But like with fear of Hell, some things could get so heavy they were not worth carrying anymore.

Crowley read the note once. Then, against all previous expectations, he read it again.

He was over the wall and down the fire escape in the next second, shouting for Anathema louder than any Inquisition in the history of the world.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Yes, that Twilight Bark and, yes, that Tibbs. If not in fan fiction, then where?  
> (2) Adding this note because I just thought of it: Yes, Lu does make a shadow in the flashback. Yes, that will be important later.


	17. Chapter the Seventeenth – The Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It would be nice to think things will be better for the ones that come after us.”  
> Uriel’s amusement turned to worry. “You’re not going anywhere, are you, Michael?” she asked.  
> “I only mean, I had no one to guide me. None of us did—after he was gone.”

* * *

**A** commonly told myth is that twins have their own language. This is because humans sometimes remember stories better than reality. And some stories are older even than that.

A commonly untold _truth_ is that doctors learn shorthand as a matter of course. This is perhaps because jests about bad handwriting in the medical profession deliberately discourage would-be imposters from looking closer.

Both common and uncommon meant that Crowley could read Raphael’s handwriting. Crouching at the coffee table, pencil bending in a clenched grip, the demon wrote out the letter into longhand. It was difficult, not because he couldn’t remember how, but because he remembered too well. There had been notes passed during evening vespers. Songs composed. Bits of poetry… The twins had never been caught. They’d never been afraid to be. Secrets were just things twins had. Nothing was wrong. Not back then. 

The eventual result of Crowley’s translation was as follows:

> _Note: More studied humans may take advantage of the following changes from the first edition:_
> 
> pp.121–40 (esp. 31) _Cases for Acceleration (revised,_ See also _Kings and Chiefs_ , p.149 _)_
> 
> pp.141–7 _Methods of Extraction_ (See also, _Threshold Laws_ , p.200)
> 
> pp.148–61 _Earthly Atonement as an Alternative to Damnation_
> 
> pp.291–351 _Sigils in Architecture for Emergency Reinforcement_
> 
> (See also, _Appendix B_ – _Colors_ : _Red_ , p.369, and _Appendix D – Formulas_ , p.381)

It was signed with Raphael’s sigil. At the sight, Crowley scratched absently at the mark by his own temple. Their signatures weren’t too far apart, all told, even with the broken bits missing from Crowley’s. Hepius had lifted his mark right from it, because mythology defies copyright as a matter of course.

“That’s that then,” said Crowley. He handed the list to Anathema just as Aziraphale entered from the front of the shop.

“Adam and his friends are being quite helpful, closing up for us,” reported the angel. He noticed Crowley’s crumpled expression. “Is it good news or bad?”

“Good, I think,” said Crowley. “Given the source, let’s hope it’s good.”

Anathema had already begun taking furious notes of her own, turning to the marked pages one by one. “What does it mean?” she asked, without missing a stroke. 

Crowley cleared his throat. This did nothing for the lump in it, so he swallowed hard and cleared it again. “Couple things,” he said. He reached out and stopped her hand at page 291. “This is the one we need the witchy-three for.” 

“You mean the Worldwide Witch Web?”

“What I said.”

“Alright, let’s go over that. You two can fill me in on the rest by phone, right?”

“But it seems a bit involved,” said Newt, reading over her shoulder.

“We have to get the kids home, and it’s been a long night,” Anathema answered him, but she was watching Crowley’s fast failing facade. She knew a thing or two about siblings. 

“Right.” Crowley stood as she finished her notetaking. He said, “Basically, humans are no match for brimstone and neither is their architecture. _But_ , we can give them an advantage by marking the architecture with a Do Not Touch sign—not for humans, but for angels.”

“Is that a thing?” asked Newt.

“Yes, _a la_ the tenth plague of Egypt.”

“How do we post this sign?” asked Anathema.

Crowley pointed. “That one—Looks a bit like a window or a door…”

Anathema made a careful copy.

“How does it work?” asked Newt. “We’re not going to be killing sheep, are we? There’ll be questions.”

“Nah,” said Crowley. He turned away quickly and jabbed his fingers into his tight pockets. Then he tossed back his hair and started to pace. He didn’t like thinking of Egypt. Egypt had been an especially bad time. “That’s the note in the appendix. If you don’t have one thing, you use something else. Same color or shape, or a soundalike name.” 

“That’s Old Magic,” Anathema observed. “My mother calls it sympathetic substitution.” 

“Right. Sympathetic… wossname. Kids do it all the time.”

“You mean playing pretend?” asked Newt, perplexed.

“No, playing _real_ ,” said Anathema patiently.

“Big difference,” Crowley agreed. “No blood required. Give or take forty years, you looked for red and you didn’t see blood: You saw a hanging red cord in a window.” 

Newt’s face brightened. “So all we have to do,” he said, “is paint the town red.”

It was a bad enough pun that everyone in the room groaned.

* * *

 **T** he Them had stayed in the front of the shop and cleaned up as Aziraphale had asked, but only until a minute had gone by. Then Adam caught Brian’s eye, Brian caught Wensleydale’s eye, and Wensleydale tapped Pepper on the shoulder. Then, like any self-respecting teenagers in an urban fantasy when adults try to speak in private, they sidled up to the doorway to properly eavesdrop and whisper their own conclusions. 

“How could we mark all the buildings in the world on time, do you think?” asked Brian. “What’d stop others from cleaning them off?”

“We could make everyone think it was a Banksy,” suggested Adam. 

“That’d work. He’s famous,” said Brian. “They let him put his art wherever. Mum says it’s on account of him being postmodern.”

“That’s like modern, only in the future,” Adam added, for Wensleydale’s sake. 

“But what about people who don’t know who Banksy is?” asked Pepper.

“Everyone knows who Banksy is.”

“Excuse me, actually, I did not until just now,” Wensleydale pointed out.

“We could tell them,” Adam suggested. “They’d probably want to be postmodern. Modern times being what they are. I don’t know who wouldn’t want to move on.”

“You know what might work better?” asked Brian. “Miracles. We could make a Twitter for it. Or a whatsit-called, Four-chan?”

“That’s the worst,” said Wensleydale.

“A lot of people go online to be the worst,” said Brian, who had learned this secret of the Internet quite early on in pubescence. “I’ll bet we could do all the sites: Mark your house, get a miracle. Everyone would spread it when they knew it worked and even if they didn’t, just in case.” 

“We’d only have to worry about marking houses where there’s no internet,” Pepper agreed excitedly.

Adam was instantly jealous that he hadn’t thought up the idea. 

“Should we tell them how important it is?” asked Wensleydale. “For practical reasons?”

“Nah, no one would do it then,” said Adam in his sagely voice, eager to gain back some prestige. “Some people are religiously against doing practical things.”

“You think your godfathers would lend us the magic box?” asked Brian.

Before Adam could answer, they heard Newt say, “Well, we should be going.” The Them scuttled back by predetermined escape routes to their tasks. Dog trotted behind Adam as Adam strolled about with a dustpan, happily maintaining their ruse and thinking about the best way to request the use of an angelic artefact. It didn’t look too difficult. Dr. Zealot’s notes had been very comprehensive on the subject. 

Newt strode out of the back room, jangling his keys. 

Newt looked forward to driving his pale blue car these days. Once upon an Apocalypse, _Dick Turpin_ had been just an automobile (if one defined “auto” as an optional function), as badly suited to technology as Newt himself. Newt had nevertheless loyally cared for it because it was a _classic_ . _[Author’s note: The Bentley took some offense at this.]_ Fortunately, since Adam’s tweak to the Universe, its condition had improved. Among other things, its mileage no longer was measured in minutes per gallon. 

“Can I choose the music on the way back?” Adam asked. He was already digging his smartphone from one pocket.

“Sure,” said Newt. “I’m not sure what CDs we have in the glove compartment though.”

Adam didn’t worry too much about this. If anything was there, it had been for a fortnight, and he was rather in the mood for Queen.

* * *

 **J** aelle had never been to the observation deck before. It was vastly empty compared to her cubicle in the infinite office of the guardians and somehow felt twice as cold. There were no desks, no chairs, not even a potted plant. Jaelle had the sneaking suspicion that everyone who used this floor wore a suit. 

Most guardians didn’t own suits, much less something in three pieces with spats and frills like archangels wore these days. The guardian department went in for traditional robes, the kind with long hems that made having wheeled office chairs a trial in long-suffering.

Raphael had also never owned a suit, but somehow his poise set its own dress code. He glanced at Jaelle as they headed for the meeting space where the blue globe hung, then noticed how she was clutching the requested file to her breastplate like it was a life preserver and she was at sea. 

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I feel underdressed,” Jaelle admitted. 

“Coming from a battle in clean armor might be more shameful,” Raphael pointed out. “How have you been otherwise? Any more distractions?”

“Um, no, much to Mat’s relief. Just busy.”

“Make time for quiet. And rest. It only helps in the long run.”

“I still hear bullets in my sleep sometimes.” 

She tried to laugh. Raphael didn’t. 

“You might want to book an appointment with Ariel then,” he said. “Mental wounds are no less severe for being invisible.”

“There are angels that need it more than I do.”

“It’s enough that there’s a need.”

Their steps slowed at the sight of the Torch on its pillar. Raphael stopped completely, and when Jaelle looked back he was frowning.

“What is that doing here?” he asked.

Before Jaelle could ask why he didn’t know, behind them came a _whoosh!_ As they turned, both Sandalphon and Uriel arrived in a wash of light off the drifting blue globe. As bits of illumination faded in their wake, Uriel brushed ash from her sleeve and beamed pleasantly.

“Well, we have a welcome party,” she observed.

“You’ve been out?” Raphael suggested.

“Here and there,” said Sandalphon pleasantly. “Just an evening looking after things, as good angels do.”

“You smell like smoke,” Raphael said.

“Well, there was a fire.” Sandalphon shrugged. “You must be here to check on Gabriel?”

“How did you know that?’ asked Jaelle.

“Who—? Oh, it’s you.” Sandalphon’s tone remained friendly, but his smile went sour. “Where did you find this one, Raphael? Has she gotten lost?”

“Lord Michael’s asked for us,” said Raphael, and he did not smile. It hadn’t occurred to Jaelle that that could, in fact, be an option.

“Whatever for?” asked Sandalphon.

“I didn’t ask,” said Jaelle. 

“Well, hallelujah,” Sandalphon sighed. “She can be taught.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t apologize, captain.”

“Sor—I mean, yes, your highness.” Jaelle turned around in relief. 

“Sorry to keep you,” said Michael. He was carrying the one chair which, Jaelle learned later, could always be found on the deck—but never where you thought you’d left it. Close behind the prince followed Gabriel, a smile pasted on his face despite his wringing hands. 

“Well, it’s been awhile since the five of us were all here,” said Gabriel with a laugh. “And with company.”

Again, Jaelle tried to smile back, then didn’t. “Are you alright, sir?”

“Need a bit of a checkup. I’ll be right as rainbows.”

On a stretch of floor between the Torch and a map table, Michael set down the chair with a spin. Gabriel glanced at it like it was something out of a bad dream.

“Let’s have a look at you,” Raphael said but he gave Jaelle’s shoulder a pat before leaving her side to prod Gabriel into the seat. He couldn’t quite reach the other archangel’s shoulder.

Jaelle reluctantly tailed the rest of the group to the map table. Raphael tied up his hair with a strand of fire, then snapped a clipboard and quill into existence. 

“So what _is_ she doing here, Michael?” Sandalphon asked.

“The captain can speak for herself.”

“His Grace asked that I bring the paperwork,” Jaelle said. 

Uriel and Sandalphon exchanged mild smiles as if to say, “Well, that’s alright then.” 

“And is this all of them?” Michael asked and reached out a hand. 

Jaelle handed over the folder and immediately felt adrift. “Just the first dozen or so, your highness,” she confessed. “I could bring more…” 

“It’s enough to start.” Michael began laying out the forms on the table. They were identical, A4-sized, single-page forms, the shade any paper gets in government offices that have shoestring budgets where no one likes a spendthrift. 

At the top of each page, was the heading, “R.A.H.A.B. Report.” Underneath this ran in slightly smaller type the subheading, “Rescued Allies wHo Abetted the Blessèd.” _[Author’s note: The clerk in charge of this acronym had insisted that the “w” was silent.]_

“Go ahead then,” added the prince, and Jaelle realized he meant her to explain. 

“Yes, your grace,” she said. “From what I understand, we used these forms more often in the old days, but as there was no formal declaration to stop, I’ve been looking into the matter to prevent neglect in these final days—as a matter of standard procedure.”

“But what are they?” asked Uriel. 

Jaelle banished the thought that the archangel of the dawn sounded _impatient_. She said, “As you likely know, before exacting judgment, it’s necessary to run reconnaissance in case there’s been a change of heart. If any mortals assist, this form grants immunity and a means of extraction before things get too dangerous.”

“What an interesting provision,” said Sandalphon.

“We’ve had a notable uptick in helpful humans ourselves, haven’t we?” Michael agreed.

“That’s encouraging,” said Jaelle uncertainly.

Uriel leaned over and read one header. “This city surrendered?”

“Yes, your glory,” said Jaelle. “They said the call to repentance was reasonable and they’ll continue to be vigilant to the last days.”

“So you didn’t attack?” Sandalphon said.

“There were no orders not to offer terms of surrender,” said Jaelle. It was a phrase she’d practiced, but it felt stiffer than she meant it to. This time, she remembered not to smile. 

For some reason, Uriel smirked. “You can’t fault her for being thorough, Michael.”

“I don’t fault the captain at all,” said Michael. 

While Jaelle wondered at their tone, Michael gathered the pages as quickly as he’d laid them out, alphabetizing them with unconscious precision Jaelle couldn’t help but recognize. The prince said, “I’m sure you need to retire after the day’s work, captain.” He replaced them in the folder. “But before that, go ahead and file the rest in the archive.” 

“All of them?” Jaelle felt her stomach unsettle as she took the file. 

“Of course,” said Michael. “Is that a problem?”

Jaelle’s eyes strayed back past the Torch, then to Raphael and Gabriel, who were still in the middle of their consultation. “No, your grace,” she said. 

“Then I’ll see you at training in the morning.”

Jaelle saluted and turned quickly on her heel. She cut through the shadow between the Torch and globe as she went, with an unconscious flicker of light.

* * *

 **“C** urious one that,” remarked Sandalphon, once she was gone.

“I heard her last charge was damned from the start,” said Uriel. “Dictator or something. I’ll bet she still cries over his baby pictures.” 

“Well, _I’m_ going to go check on Gabriel,” said Sandalphon, and strutted away.

Uriel sat on the edge of the table, noticed Michael’s smile was a bit broader. “You’re not normally this excited, even by paperwork.”

“Shouldn’t I be? The future is looking brighter by the minute.”

“I’m glad to see you showing some interest in it.”

“Pestilence was a failure, but I’ve sent an emissary to find Wormwood,” Michael explained. “We’ll be ready soon enough to put the world behind us.” 

“And you’re sure it’s a healthy preoccupation?”

“Paperwork?”

“A protege,” Uriel corrected. “ _That_ one.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Uriel folded her arms pointedly. “A scribe turned soldier. A brand in the crucible, forged into a sword. I can see the signs, even if Sandalphon’s forgotten your humble beginnings, _your highness_. I had to teach you how to do your hair.”

“You misunderstand me.” Michael’s chuckle was forced. “It would be nice to think things will be better for the ones that come after us.”

Uriel’s amusement turned to worry. “You’re not going anywhere, are you, Michael?” she asked.

“I only mean, I had no one to guide me. None of us did—after he was gone.” Michael glanced up towards the Veil without meaning to. “Whether the demons choose to keep the peace or not, things will be different this time.”

“I don’t like you talking like you won’t be here.”

“It’s only that I could never picture it,” Michael said. “A future. Not after what happened. But that’s past now.”

“I do think I understand,” said Uriel, warming a little to the idea. She sighed. “So when do we stop these witches from meddling in our future?”

“I was thinking as soon as tonight.”

* * *

 **T** he Archangel Gabriel had a thermometer in his mouth. It wasn’t strictly necessary, but Raphael admitted only to himself that it made the whole procedure go much faster. Nearby, Sandalphon rocked on his heels, smiling encouragingly. 

“And have you had any trouble sleeping?” Raphael asked.

“Mm-mm.”

“Bad dreams?”

“Mm… Mm-mm.”

“Unusual aches and pains?”

“Hm… Mm mm m mm-m-mm.”

The device chimed like a tiny bell and Raphael retrieved it. “What was that?” he asked.

“No more than usual,” Gabriel repeated as Raphael added to his notes.

“And have you had any recent contact with demons, Hell, or both?”

“Define contact?”

“Proximity.”

“Sure. There are battles and such, and…” Gabriel muttered something.

“Come again?”

“He said, ‘karaoke,’” Sandalphon supplied helpfully. 

Raphael smiled wryly. “Well, that explains the sore throat.”

“You know what that is?” 

“A few of the cadets got laryngitis last week,” Raphael explained, jotting this down. 

“They do keep us on our toes,” Michael said as he and Uriel arrived. He set a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder for assurance. “How are you feeling, Gabriel?”

“Good, I think.”

“Raphael?” Michael asked. 

“I wish you’d told me of this earlier,” said Raphael, “but it could be worse.” 

“Than what exactly?” asked Gabriel, his knee jittering again.

“You’ve sustained hypodermic burns,” said Raphael. “It must have come from long-term exposure. Like sunburn.” 

“But I don’t feel anything like that.”

Raphael looked for a moment apologetic, then gave Gabriel’s hand a light push with one finger. Gabriel yelped. 

“Ow,” Gabriel added belatedly. “And, um, how could it be worse than that?”

“Chaotic fire never quite mended well, if I remember our reports from Leviathan,” Raphael explained. “I suppose I’ll need to change the course of my research, if only for a little while. What were you using the fire for?”

“Munitions,” said Michael. “You’re welcome to study it.” 

“With great care, I promise,” said Raphael. “Mixing just a spark of that with any flame would create hellfire.”

“We’re well aware. And so are the demons who gave it up to us.”

“And what did we give up in return?”

“It’s not for you to worry about diplomacy, Raphael.” Beyond the window glass, the monuments of the world were still falling to entropy faster than they could rise. Michael left his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Now what can be _done_ about it?” he asked.

“For now? Holy water,” Raphael said. He tucked the quill away. “And I’d like to keep him overnight at the ward, just for observation.”

“If you must. Thank you, Raphael.” 

“What was the meeting about?” asked Gabriel.

“It’s alright. Just get better.” Michael gave Gabriel’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll see to the rest.”

He strode to the Torch and stretched his palm out over it. 

“Michael—” Raphael began.

“There’s work to do,” said the prince. He drew his hand back and the red flames threaded through his fingers and then disappeared. “I’ll be back by morning.”

* * *

 **T** he present rolled out uncertainly, and in the forest between Chiltern Hills and Tadfield the moon rose towards midnight. 

_Dick Turpin_ and his riders cruised silent as a moth through the night. At least, on the exterior. The _Best of…_ CD from the glove compartment was playing at a volume no other album would have mustered. 

_Stomp-Stomp. Clap. Stomp-Stomp. Clap._

_Stomp-Stomp. Clap. Stomp-Stomp. Clap—_

“ _Buddy, you’re a young man, hard man, shoutin’ in the street, gonna take on the world someday. Y’got blood on your face—”_

“ _You big disgrace!_ ” screamed everyone in the car.

“So, say we manage to mark all of Soho,” asked Newt, as The Them and Dog took over the lyrics. “What then?”

_“We will, we will rock you!”_

_Stomp-Stomp. Clap. Stomp-Stomp. Clap._

“I suppose all the humans will have to fight,” said Anathema, leafing through her notes.

“ _Buddy, you’re an old man, poor man, pleadin’ with your eyes, gonna make you some peace some day. You got mud on your face…”_

“But angels? Don’t they smite whole cities just by looking at them?”

“Gabriel didn’t seem too threatening at the airbase,” admitted Anathema, adding, “ _You big disgrace!_ —I don’t know. It seemed like he was waiting for permission.”

“That is odd. From who, I wonder.” 

The guitar solo had just been joined by four very enthusiastic air guitarists when a bolt of bristling blue lightning smashed the ground in front of _Dick Turpin_. Newt slammed the breaks. The forest was suddenly awash with fire. The damp wood and undergrowth smoked and smoldered, and in the midst of the ruin ahead of them something stood up. It had too many eyes.

Dog snarled and barked furiously as The Them craned to see from the back seat. 

Despite the burst of flame, _Dick Turpin_ was fine. Adam’s repairs to the foreign model three years prior had had unexpected results—unexpected to everyone but Adam, anyway. Now a bell like a glass windchime pinged on, and a serene voice said, “ _Natsu yonaka—Ka’netsu enji’n ga—Tenki kana?_ ”

Newt grabbed the clutch. Whatever was standing in the road was not a human. A human was a being you’d be afraid to hit with your car, not the other way around.

“What the Hell was that?” Anathema had gritted her teeth. 

“Oh, it’s just informing us that the engine’s overheated,” said Newt who had, since the Apocalypse, been brushing up on the art of Japanese haiku. “Or did you mean the eldritch blaze of light in the middle of the road?”

“The eldritch blaze of light, but I can understand why in our relationship I should have clarified.”

* * *

 **C** rowley was sitting on his heels on the hearthstone, staring into the flames and jabbing a poker at a fire that wouldn’t need his help if it were under a glacier. The Stone was vying for attention again. 

Meanwhile, Aziraphale tutted about the shop for a little longer after their company left. Crowley appreciated his angel giving him space. They’d spent far less time apart since Armageddon and had gotten used to one another’s moods. Aziraphale had his end-of-the-day routines with dusting and a bit of Schubert before settling in with cocoa and Wilde. And Crowley needed his garden or a drive in the Bentley, or, apart from this, a good sit and a sulk. 

At last he shut his eyes to the fire, and thought of a different red heat in a hostile place. And he thought about the word _sorry_. 

Crowley had expected the letter might say _sorry_. He could have scoffed at sorry. It was sentimental. “What do you have to be sorry about?” he could have asked, demanded, and felt better for it—or at least the usual amount of bad.

Sorry would have been innocent too. It would have been easy. Sorry was just another word for sorrow. Both words shared a root that meant “riddled with sores.” Good people could be sorry about bad ones. The other angels might feel sorry, too, if word got out: Poor Raphael, sorry about his brother. Saw him and couldn’t help himself. Any good brother would do the same. Not that Michael ever was sorry, but, well, that was different. 

But instead of sorry, Raphael had said what only he knew to say. He’d handed it over to the only enemy Heaven and Hell could agree on. And he had signed his name.

Crowley set aside the poker. He folded his arms to stop himself from shaking. It had been easier when he’d thought he was hated. 

Knowing Raphael, he wouldn’t apologize if Heaven found out. Not even to Michael. But then, they’d just make him sorry in another way. He must know that. They’d threaten him like they had Aziraphale—probably worse, for what he’d cost them—and they’d do it for his “own good.” He must know that, too. He wasn’t a fool. He had to know what might happen. Behind all that bedside manner, he knew the risks. 

Eventually, Aziraphale strolled back in with a bottle of pinot blanc and a brace of stemware. “Care for a nightcap?”

“Gonna need more than one bottle, angel,” Crowley sighed. He started as the phone in his back pocket buzzed. As he stood and pulled it out, several stubs of chalk clattered to the floor. He’d gotten into the habit of carrying some around at all times. Aziraphale set aside the bottle and picked one up. When he looked up again, Crowley was reaching for the rucksack.

“Crowley?”

“It’s Adam,” said Crowley, reading the muddled text. He kept up on the latest lolspeak, but some mistakes were clearly typos. The next moment he was mining one pocket for the Bentley’s keys. 

“Is there some emergency?” asked Aziraphale.

“Could say that.” Crowley entered the main shop and stopped just past the iron wrought spiral staircase. The galleries of the main bookshop were marked by compass points along their balcony. Crowley looked up and found northwest, then looked down at the carpet underfoot. An idea came to him, even as he felt the bag on his shoulder starting to thrum insistently. 

_What you could use now_ , it seemed happy to point out, _is a magic wishing box._

“On my terms,” Crowley muttered, then said, “Angel, how much do you trust me with your shop?”

* * *

 **N** ewt grabbed the clutch again at the same moment Anathema grabbed Newt’s arm.

“Don’t try to run,” she said. 

The ethereal being was gathering something like lightning on the end of a shinier bit like a sword. 

“Then what should we do?” asked Newt. 

“Duck!”

Everyone in the car did. Adam threw one arm across Pepper’s back and another over Wensleydale. Newt threw his jacket across both him and Anathema just as the windshield shattered. Blue lightning clawed the exterior of the car as the bits of glass fell away and the vehicle rocked warily in place.

It was less damage than they’d expected, but the visitor clearly wasn’t finished. It raised the sword again. 

A voice outside that seemed to not possess lungs said, <Greetings, Anathema Device.>

“Dammit,” muttered Anathema, then said quickly, “Newt, remember this morning when the Shambles caught fire and the ladybirds flew out?”

Newt was very fast on the uptake. “Out. Everybody out.”

Adam threw open the door and they spilled over the side of the road. In the next instant, a comet of flame hit the car directly, lifted it off the ground, and turned it twice end over end before it landed wheels up on its roof. The pinging chime turned to a slightly more alarmed bronze clanging as it rocked with the blast.

“ _Setsuzokutte—Douro to ta’iya—Murinatteru_ . _Setsuzokutte—Douro to ta’iya—Murinatteru_ …” 

Newt found his glasses and smashed them back onto his face. “Is it like a demon?” he asked. 

“No, angels don’t negotiate when they’re pissed,” said Anathema. Around them a wind was howling. It seemed to spiral around the angel. She snatched at pages of notes that caught in the gust and shoved them into her tote bag. “Into the woods, by those trees, stay down.”

“Why are you talking like you’re staying here?” Newt’s fist clutched his car keys like he might use them as a weapon, which would have been an insane thing to do.

Insane but, Anathema conceded silently, not unexpected. She swallowed in a suddenly dry throat, then kissed Newt so hard his glasses went crooked the other way. “It’ll be alright.”

“But—”

“Stay down.” Anathema mounted the slope of the road, only half a plan in her head. Long ago, angels who traveled openly were met with some form of deference, but mostly with fear. Accounts contained a great deal of polite language, as well as a lot of groveling and kneeling on the part of the humans. Anathema personally didn’t believe current standards deserved such humiliation, but there were exactly zero accounts of humans being less than polite to angels—presumably because those humans didn’t survive. 

The upturned car still made its serene complaint amid the burning forest. “ _Setsuzokutte—Douro to ta’iya—Murinatteru_ . _Setsuzokutte—Douro to ta’iya—Murinatteru_ …” 

The angel said, <Anathema Device, I can burn down this entire forest if you don’t come quietly.>

“So you want me alive?”

“Now wait, just a minute—” shouted Newt.

“Don’t worry, love, a witch always knows when they’re going to die,” said Anathema. 

“That does _not_ make me feel better!” Newt exclaimed.

“So you want me alive?” Anathema repeated to the angel. “Me, specifically?” 

<Anathema—>

“Yes, that’s my name. Aren’t you supposed to tell me I’m highly favored or something?”

<You and some of your kin have found favor with the Almighty.>

Was that sarcasm? Could angels be sarcastic? Angels not wearing tartan bow ties at least?

<You’ve been chosen to escape the coming wrath—>

“Wait a minute, no, thank you. How do I know you’re really a messenger from G-d Almighty?”

<What?> If any ethereal being could convey perplexity, this one managed.

“You’re not even using the ‘thou’ and ‘thy’ pronouns. I’m pretty sure that’s standard procedure. I demand to know your name. You should be reported to your supervisor.”

There was a flash of light like a roll of fog in all directions, and then a bright-haired angel in a linen suit was standing in the road. At the moment, it was unarmed. Its expression was even a bit cool despite its fiery arrival. 

“I _am_ the supervisor.”

The presence of the angel’s power seemed to stretch further than mere visuals allowed for. Anathema reconsidered her tone. 

“Well, you’re not the beefy one,” she admitted, adjusting her glasses in examination. “So I guess that means you’re not the general of the army.”

“You could be closer than you think.” Something gold glittered in the not-quite-thereness around the angel where its wings showed in outline. It looked like a crown of stars.

“Oh.” Then Anathema swore after the American fashion. “So you’re _Michael_.”

With steps quicker than the shattered ground should have allowed, the angel crossed the road and had her by the shoulders. Anathema had the instant of an unsettling sensation, like gravity had lost an argument. She was certain she was about to vanish from the physical plane of existence and, if the angel was rash with interdimensional space, a few of the nonphysical ones as well.

Then there was an explosion.

Anathema’s senses snapped back into their proper levels of time and space. She landed hard on the gravel and quite suddenly was somewhere between planes again, only these were planes she recognized. She and Newt and the children and even, somehow, _Dick Turpin_ , were in the woods but also _in the bookshop_ . The smoking forest trees and the warm papered walls of the shop had intersected as easily as beams of light. Anathema reached out and touched the carved wooden frame of a chair as her other hand fell on the gravel of the dirt road. Each was _there_ , alright, and yet not enough to interfere with the other. 

In the thick of it, just above and behind where a glowing white circle blazed on the floorboards—or the dirt, or both—was Crowley. His feet were _not_ on the ground. 

He was standing, but there was nothing to stand on. And his hair was no longer the color of rust, but of red fire. Something about his clothes spoke not of denim and black scales but robes of white stretched through redshift one way and blueshift the other. The clothes moved in a soundless wind, folds of linen cradling starlight, more nebula than fabric. Wheels of light blazed around him like the rings of an atom or a planet.

On his palm he held the Philosopher’s Stone. 

“Michael, dude,” he said. His voice carried like light through water. “Why not say we make this easy on you and you leave?”

Michael had landed against a tree. Now he righted himself and drew again the sword like a lightning bolt. The rings of light expanded to surround the waylaid travelers, and suddenly the rings also had teeth. Michael staggered back hurriedly.

“You can’t fight me with that, demon,” Michael said. He batted away a flying page of notes. “That’s not a weapon.”

“Nah, it’s just a doohickey that fixes and remembers stuff,” said Crowley, still looking like himself and not like himself, while the walls of the bookshop flickered around them. Now Anathema could almost feel a rumbled carpet underfoot. “And it can banish you from where you do not belong.”

“This is not your place.”

“My place? Who cares about _my_ place? This is Soho,” said Crowley. 

“This is Chiltern Hills.”

“And yet, also, Soho. Aziraphale’s territory, in fact. Can’t have even archangels disrespecting the boundaries of principalities. Not before Judgment Day.”

“Impossible.”

“You really think pesky little things like space and time will get in my way when I have a magic miracle box?” said Crowley firmly.

He waved a hand over the Stone and on the floor that was also the ground the ring of white light threw its rim higher and brighter than before as the symbols crossing it blazed bright as flood lights. Looking closer, Anathema realized it was a kind of magic circle ringed with lit candles. She had seen it on the floor of the bookshop before.

Michael stood opposite and brandished his sword. He smirked. “That is Heaven’s artefact. A demon doesn’t know how to use it.” He once more took on the form of a many-eyed wing enthusiast.

Crowley shrugged, unimpressed. “Yeah, but an old drinking buddy of mine does. And like I said. Not my place.”

A body previously obscured by the overlapping planes of existence moved forward from the shadow of the trees and suddenly Michael was shoved forward, head over wings, and landed directly in the white circle. He had time only to shout in surprise before an upward rush of light tightened into a pillar and then, like a jet stream of water shot him skyward. In a burst of lumination, the angel vanished and the light went out. 

The sword clattered to the ground, it’s lightning gone, just gleaming steel in the moonlight.

“Good riddance,” said Aziraphale. He straightened his jacket with a huff. “Is everyone alright?”

“Angel, I don’t think I can hold this much longer,” said Crowley. The planes of existence flickered. Suddenly it appeared that he was standing on the spiral stair up to the bookshop’s galleries. He clutched at the rail as his clothing settled into more or less its normal painted on look. “Anathema, Newt, you guys all alright? What were they after?”

“Me, I think,” said Anathema shakily. All around them the wind died down. The whirlwind of note pages fluttered to the ashen forest floor. 

Aziraphale helped her up. “Perhaps you should come with us then?” he asked.

“We only just left Soho a few hours ago,” said Newt. “How are you two here?”

“We’re not.” Crowley looked around, caught Adam’s eye, and winked.

“Wicked,” said Adam.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and _Dick Turpin_ righted itself on the road. Crowley made a complicated gesture above the Stone and the forest fires went out. The walls and other bits of the bookshop started to fade, and so did they.

“Anathema, are you sure you want to stay?” asked Crowley.

“I need to tell my mother,” said Anathema. “The other witches…”

“Be careful,” said Crowley. 

“Of course.” 

The angel and the demon vanished with the bookshop back into the night. _Dick Turpin_ chimed something about the parking brake. Then the forest was eerily still.

Anathema rolled out the shoulder where the angel’s hand had landed. It was still there somehow. In another time, another place. No, just another time… She tried to make sense of the feeling. She looked at the road ahead as she walked to the car. The usual bright auras that told her she was on the right path seemed dimmer somehow. 

“Good luck that,” said Newt.

Anathema stared at where the circle of white light had been. All seven of her senses were throwing sparks. “I suppose.” 

_Something I was supposed to do_ , she thought. _But what?_

Newt leaned out of the car. “Anathema? Are you okay?”

Anathema hurriedly stooped down and picked up a handful of notes to shove back into her tote bag, along with her previous ones: The scripts, the procedures, the comparison of the editions. Some pages had been lost to the flames. 

It was there, she was sure of it. A nagging at the back of her mind. Something had been _missed_. 

“It’s… funny.”

“Not really,” said Newt.

“No,” said Anathema. “No, I suppose not.”

* * *

 **C** rowley collapsed on the steps to the bookshop’s galleries and the Stone tumbled from his hand. It hit the floor below with a _plink_. Aziraphale ignored it, taking the steps two at a time.

“Crowley?” he said. “ _Anthony_.”

“I’m here, angel.” Crowley opened his uncanny gold eyes and blinked up at the ceiling. “Still here.”

“Thank Everything.”

“Good thing it was just one angel. Hate to try that on all ten million of them. But it would be Michael, with our luck. Should have done more. Stopped him more… permanently.”

“That’s quite enough for now, Anthony J. Crowley,” Aziraphale scolded. “I won’t have you taxing yourself beyond what’s good for you. If you think—”

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley interrupted, and Aziraphale’s heart warmed at a chuckle that was as fond as it was familiar. “You do realize the light show did practically nothing.”

Aziraphale glanced at the magic circle. “But all that stuff about—”

“A good temptation”—Crowley said—“is nothing but a suggestion. A good bluff is just the same.”

Realization dawned on the angel. Aziraphale glanced down at the pouting Stone. “You mean all that was, was…”

“A close call. Never negotiate with someone who wants you dead.” In the back room, Crowley slumped back into a chair. He eyed the Stone but then shook his head. It could sit where it liked for now. Touching it had been like flossing with a lightning bolt. 

“You’re sure you’re alright?’

“Never better. Another disaster averted. Victory’s ours. How about that wine?”

* * *

 **A** ll of Heaven’s traveling circles were tuned to a connecting point of departure, and so Michael hit the barracks' floor somewhere and some time past midnight and, much to the relief of his dignity (which he would never call pride), _alone_. 

He had changed form just in time. If he hadn’t shielded his corporation in the ether, it would have been consumed. Even now, several hundred of the eyes in his wings stung. He hadn’t closed them in time. And half his feathers felt brushed backward. He hurriedly shifted back into his more compact and humanlike form.

There was a flutter as a bit of human paper landed on the floor. Right. Those had been whirling around the forest, something out of that witch’s bag. Fuming, Michael stepped on the page. 

Then he caught sight of the sigil on its bottom corner. 

A name.

An angel’s name. 

A moment later, Michael was in the war office with the door shut, turning his phone over in one hand, the note still clutched in the other. 

It wasn’t possible.

Was it?

Michael set the page down on the desk. He needed to make a call but suddenly the topic of such was eluding him. He should be telling the demons exactly what had become of the Philosopher’s Stone. Or, better yet, discussing a change in schedule. They were behind. Too far behind. They’d been running behind for three years. 

But he really should start with the matter of Heaven’s security, he decided. 

He punched the speed dial.

Down in Hell’s filing department, a landline rang.

“ _Depths of Despair. Dagon threatening_.”

Michael had, by now, calmed his breathing enough to say politely, “Lord Dagon, it’s me.”

“ _This is a bit soon, isn’t it?_ ” asked the Lord of the Files. 

“I need to ask your prince about an angel.”

“ _Isn’t that your department?_ ”

“You tell me. It’s about Raphael.”

* * *

 **J** aelle hefted another box onto the archive shelf and gave it a push with one shoulder. It slid back to the wall. Matarael passed her the next one.

“How many more?” she asked.

“Just these two,” said Matarael. He took another box from Araphon. The guardians had set up an assembly line from the observation deck’s stairwell. It wasn’t something soldiers might think of, but guardians knew how to move paperwork.

“It’s going to be a tight fit,” said Araphon.

“I think I can find some space,” said Jaelle optimistically.

The archive room behind the Library was close and stuffy despite seeming to go on forever. Scrolls of parchment were stored alongside rolled ladders of bamboo. Film canisters were piled alongside cardboard file boxes and standing crates of folders. Jaelle spotted a few promising gaps between long trays of slides the next aisle over, and started shifting and stacking to make room.

“And you’re sure the prince didn’t want to see the rest?” asked Matarael.

“Certain.”

“Even after he asked for _all_ of them?”

“I’m sure he just has no time.”

“I guess not. But it’s a bit rude, having us haul up all the ones you brought to his desk—”

The last box went up, this time on a higher shelf.

“—and the rest from the barracks.”

The box hit something halfway. Jaelle stood on a nearby crate to give it a push from a better angle. It was an act of haste and she paid for it, rocking back on her unsteady perch and falling backwards. Matarael caught her as the crate toppled. This did little good, however, as the force of the fall sent them both tumbling. Matarael’s shot out his wings just in time to break their fall.

“Oof,” he remarked.

“Sorry,” said Jaelle. “I’ll just…”

“Right…”

“My fault…”

“You know you have wings too, Jaelle.”

“Yeah…”

“You don’t have to be at the mercy of gravity.”

“I am aware, Mat.”

“Like, you’re not hurting its feelings.”

“Huh?”

“We don’t even have to stay on the floor if we don’t want to.”

“What? Oh.” Jaelle quickly backed up on her heels.

Matarael tucked in his wings and smiled a little. His eyes warmed to a soft shade of lavender Jaelle had never seen before. Araphon, set aside the last file box and rolled his eyes. 

Together, they all stooped to pick up the contents of the crate. Unfortunately, the majority of these were unmarked folders containing photographs, which meant stacking the folders simply spilled waterfalls of slippery black and white photos across the floor and under shelves again.

“Odd, none of these are labeled,” said Araphon, evening a few edges.

Jaelle picked up a folder and immediately a dozen photographs slid free and drifted across the floor. She hurried after the fastest and staggered under a low lamp to pick it up. Matarael gathered a few, then noticed she hadn’t moved.

“What is it?” he asked.

“This is Sol Este,” said Jaelle. “The president’s manor. I recognize the view of the river.”

“So?” asked Matarael.

Jaelle stooped and picked up another. “And that’s Esteban.”

“Your charge?”

“Yeah, but…” She turned the photo around, half believing she might be imagining things, wanting her peers to see it. “But that’s Lord Gabriel.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations of Dick Turpin's Haiku:  
> (Please pardon my poor attempts at Japanese poetry. Any corrections/suggested alterations would be welcome!):
> 
>  _Natsu yonaka—Ka’netsu enji’n ga—Tenki kana_  
>  夏夜中–過熱エンジンが–天気かな。  
> A summer midnight–An overheated engine—Is it the weather?
> 
>  _Setsuzokutte—Douro to ta’iya—Murinatteru._  
>  接続って–道路とタイヤ–無理なってる。  
> Making connection–Of the road and the tire–It's impossible.


	18. Chapter the Eighteenth – The Show Must Go On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein some rise and some fall. And, yes, the title is referencing [_that song_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t99KH0TR-J4).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late in coming. It runs 34 pages in my Docs but I hope it makes up for lost time!

* * *

**E** dward Lorenz would have insisted it was not Sloth. When time is against you and the same experiment has gone only a thousandth of a decimal astray every time, the temptation to take shortcuts can be insurmountable—because you tell yourself the paperwork will back it up.

Lorenz was wrong. The new paperwork backed up a completely different idea.

In this way, one might say that Edward Lorenz did not invent chaos theory so much as write it down. One might even say he happened upon it by chance, if one believes in such things. 

But one could never say the outcome was not the result of a choice.

* * *

 **“A** week?”

It was Jaelle’s turn to visit Captain Ariya that morning. And, since it was a soldier’s duty and not just a guardian’s, this meant she had to wear _the uniform_.

Jaelle hated _the uniform_ , and actively glared at it whenever she had to open her footlocker for any reason. The uniform had been designed in peacetime and it showed. The boots pinched her toes, the buttons caught her hair, and the shoulder pads would have better been put to use carrying a small tea service, they were that large. Jaelle was also fairly certain that a whole crop of potatoes must have been boiled to death to starch it, because it was impossible to saunter or even stroll while wearing it. One could only manage a signature stiff and flat-foot march. 

Now, however, the uniform showed its one redeeming feature, which was that the crisp creases stood her at attention when she would otherwise have fallen over. 

“What happened?” Jaelle asked. 

Ariya was sitting up on the edge of his bed. The broad-shouldered angel was wearing plain robes, as most patients did, and a fresh bandage on his head. His feet swung while one of the nurses tested his reflexes with a small hammer. It was good to see him not full of wounds, smiling even, but his laugh at the question startled her.

“What usually happens in Raphael’s ward,” he said. “I’m getting better.”

Again, Jaelle’s mind stalled. Fortunately, the formal training of call-center workers everywhere took the reins. Fortunately, she said, “Congratulations, captain. We’ll be glad to have you back,” instead of shouting something four letters long. And, fortunately, Ariya noticed nothing strange about it.

He said, “You’ll be back at the easy job.”

“The easy job?” Jaelle echoed.

“Taking orders,” Ariya explained helpfully. 

“Taking… Oh.”

“It’s a fair trade, isn’t it?” he asked.

“You think so?”

“There’s some freedom in following orders. And some in giving them. You probably noticed.”

Jaelle had. But saying that was like saying there was some slavery, too. 

Ariya turned his head on one side. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked. “How was everything?”

And just like that they were talking in past tense.

* * *

 **I** n the predawn light around Canary Street, the world was bright. Those streets in Soho more inclined towards neon had a reputation to uphold after all. There were, of course, shadows in alleyways to be wary of, but as was the case in St. James Park, there was simply no reason to look up. 

The shadows of the roof on which Crowley stood were suffused with a dull muddle of blue and pink from the outward facing signage. Crowley grunted, and his mop hit the paving of the roof with a thick, wet _slap_. 

He walked. This night, like many others in the past few weeks, had been a night of walking. Seven steps north. Three steps west. And then back again for the second stroke… The mophead slid behind Crowley, leaving behind the broad red line of paint reminiscent of something far more severe because the memory was, indeed, the point. 

It wasn’t the subtlety of the brush that Aziraphale had mastered in his years at the canvas, but it served.

“I think it needs to be a bit longer on this side,” said Aziraphale presently. He pointed a paint-stirring stick. He was managing the large paint bucket, and wore a bespattered smock with long sleeves to ensure he didn’t damage his clothes. The smock was gathered at the cuffs.

“Will do,” Crowley huffed, lugging the mop back for a final, angular stroke. “How are we on paint?”

“Oh, at least a gallon left, but we ought to be getting back. We’re losing the night.”

“Right-o. What time did Anathema want to head back by phone?”

“After lunch, I think.”

“Plenty of time then.”

Aziraphale set aside the paint stirrer and pulled a folded map from inside his sleeve. He opened it carefully, took a pencil from his pocket, and made a mark. “And you are sure we have to do it manually?”

“Human defense, human methods,” said Crowley. “What I’m worried about”—He changed direction again—“is missing something. All it takes is one odd one out, and then you have one group blaming the other for being less prepared for generations after. Or worse, thinking Heaven’s on their side because the smiting only happened in the other neighborhood.”

“It will be short-lived,” Aziraphale pointed out. “The terrors alone have set armies to flight before.”

“All the more reason not to risk misunderstandings. Sunday Assembly, YMCA, the works—let’s do it all.” 

“And then we’ll be relying on Anathema and the witches to handle the demons,” Aziraphale reminded himself out loud. “It does seem like we have everything covered, except of course how to make them all go away.”

“Working on that. I’m working on backup plans for the backup plans. The problem is not being everywhere at once.”

“Oh, I trust you, my dear, although I can’t help feeling a bit… uneasy.”

“End of the world, angel,” Crowley pointed out. “And we’re working off-script this time.” He squinted up at the sky. “I’ll admit I’m more worried about that though.”

“I thought I might not be the only one.”

The hairline crack seemed to have developed branches. Some were diverging only to merge again with lines from other forks in its gradually spreading veins. There were presently segments entirely stenciled out of the sky, which gave the unsettling impression they might fall out. On a day with no wind you could almost hear the cracks spreading with a sound like a finger pushing slowly into the shell of an egg. 

_From the outside_ , Crowley thought. 

“What do you suppose it is?” asked Aziraphale. 

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Crowley admitted. “I was hoping you knew.”

Aziraphale sighed, then looked down the street to where the first of the bakeries were drawing up their shades. Golden light spilled out into the neon street. “Well, I admit to feeling a tad peckish.”

“Er, I suppose it has been a night.”

Aziraphale brightened and doffed his smock, folding it neatly into a parcel he could carry under one arm. “Where shall we dine?”

“I’ve a hankering for something on soldiers—toast, that is,” Crowley admitted, cleaning the mophead with a snap of his fingers. He leaned the mop on the bucket and backed away. With a double-handed flourish, he sent the whole set back to the storage closet in the bookshop. Little shortcuts like that were miracles he was getting quite good at, these days especially. 

“Er, Crowley?”

“Mm?”

“You’re a bit garish, my dear.” Aziraphale let his eyes dart across Crowley’s wardrobe.

Crowley never compromised fashion for the practical, but the practical often compromised him. He rolled his eyes at himself, and snapped his fingers again to clean up. Then he turned up his collar. “In my defense, you meet all sorts this hour of morning,” he said. “My treat then?”

“Oh no, I insist.”

Crowley stared across the neon street paling in the rising dawn. There were five hundred buildings in Soho, but in Crowley’s experience fire had a way of getting away from itself. Ought to mark the outskirts as well, he thought. London had burned before.

“Crowley?”

Crowley harumphed reflexively. Aziraphale sighed, then kissed his demon on the cheek.

A spark jumped up Crowley’s spine and he went straight as a ramrod. 

Aziraphale stepped back, his smile all dimples. “I won’t have you dwelling on doom when you should be enjoying breakfast,” he said, as Crowley turned to him speechless. “We can’t save the world on an empty stomach.”

“Yeah, doom-dwelling, not… breakfast,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale nodded, practically glowing. “I’m quite happy to hear it.”

* * *

 **J** aelle wanted to tell Ariya the truth. She wanted to say there had been a lot of guarding lately and that it had worked. She wanted to say that _ending_ the world was actually harder than keeping it _running_. She wanted to tell this old coworker of hers that there were photographs in the archives and more than photographs—transcripts, recordings, graphs, and maps—all without a good or even a bad excuse. She wanted to say a lot of things, but suddenly she felt sick.

Unisex washrooms stood against the main ward. They were only used every couple of centuries, but with the en-corporation of so many guardians into soldiers, the plumbing was currently in operation, as was a great deal of lavender potpourri. 

Toilets were a human experience Jaelle had never wanted to live through, even vicariously, but as soon as Ariya was wheeled off to rehab, she ducked into a stall and latched the door behind her. 

She tossed up the toilet seat. She threw up. 

When her stomach was empty, she sat on her heels staring at the floor and wiping at her eyes while the hollowed-by-acid feeling slid back down her throat.

Esteban had worried about this. When he was alone, he’d stopped smiling and sat still and serious with his doubt. She’d tried to tell him that was why he should stop. The mind coped with stress by recalibrating. Anything could become the new “normal” to get you through. It was too easy to forget the normal you’d been striving for. You promised yourself you’d make good at the end, but when the end was long in coming, well, would you remember what good _was_?

When had Ariya ever talked about freedom as following orders?

The worst of it was, Jaelle didn’t know how to remind him he hadn’t, because, so far as he was concerned _nothing had changed_. In a week’s time, she’d be walking that road again. If it was so insidious, how long before she changed, too?

She could refuse, Jaelle supposed. Ask for leave. Say it was the stress. No one would blame her.

But that was a miserable comfort, wasn’t it? If someone stood in your place and did horrible things, wasn’t it all your fault for making the vacancy? And she couldn’t leave anyway. Not with Amalek’s silent scream still in her nightmares. 

But suppose she did stay? Supposed she fought the assimilation? Suppose she acted out? What could a mere soldier do? In the end, she would only be expelled, or worse. 

Jaelle startled at the rap on the door.

“Jaelle, are you in there?”

“Yeah, Mat.” Jaelle shivered, then stood up, wincing at a tight pain in the back of her knees. 

“You okay?”

“No.” Jaelle flushed the toilet, then cracked open the door. Matarael stepped back and winced sympathetically. He was wearing his guardian clothes. Most of her thousand did when there wasn’t a battle. They’d picked up the habit from her. 

Matarael said, “I was waiting in the barracks… for an hour. Everyone’s gone to hang out in Eden.”

“Sorry. You didn’t have to wait…”

“I was just worried, is all.”

Jaelle stepped out of the stall and limped to the nearest sink. She pulled a toothbrush and paste from a cabinet behind the mirror and started to brush.

“Myriad came and asked if I’d seen you. So I asked Ariya, and we asked Ariel.”

Jaelle spit and brushed a bit more. She eyed the dustbin beside the sink. 

“And finally Tifriel said you were in here.”

Jaelle put away the toothbrush and, with a decisive motion, took one of the ridiculous shoulderpads in one hand and ripped it off.

It went into the bin with a sound like a gong.

“What are you doing?” asked Matarael.

“Can’t stand this thing.” Jaelle shrugged, then tore off the second one. 

_Gong!_

She pulled down the braid she’d done up to keep her hair from catching on the brassy bits. “But what did Myriad want?” she asked.

Matarael, for no explicable reason, suddenly turned on his heel. Jaelle froze halfway out of her coat. 

“Mat?”

He barreled on, like he wasn’t at an aboutface, “She said something about how Lord Michael’s set an appointment to see… to see you on the observation deck as soon as he gets back from witch reconnaissance.”

“‘Witch reconnaissance’? Is that a thing?” 

“Dunno.”

“Can’t it wait?” Jaelle peeled off the coat and stood in her smock and trousers uncertainty. Then she balled up the stiff cloth around its fancy buttons and took aim.

“Jaelle, he’s the _prince_.”

_Gong!_

“Hmph.”

_Gong!_

And that was the boots and the trousers. Jaelle walked decisively to a locker in the nearest wall and pulled it open. A set of robes obligingly dropped into existence. They were the plain but comfortable sort with folds where the wings could come out without itching. She collected them with a huff of satisfaction, then noticed her friend hadn’t moved.

“Mat, are _you_ okay?”

“Sure.”

“You’re being… weird.”

Matarael cleared his throat. “Oh, well, can I be honest?”

“Sure.”

Matarael glanced at the door, then under the stall doors, making sure they were alone. He lowered his voice. “You know that box we’re not supposed to check on the form?”

“What form?”

“When we applied for a corporation we were comfortable with.”

Jaelle mentally leafed through her memory of all things paperwork. Guardians were, technically, a nest under the Watchers and so had photographic memory. “But if we’re not supposed to check it, then why is there a box?”

“That’s what I thought. It could be a test. Everyone says we’re not supposed to check it. Well, they don’t _say_ it. But you sort of _know_ , don’t you? Most people don’t do it. Statistically, I mean—I looked it up. After. But people would talk if they found out someone—”

“You checked it?”

“Yeah.”

Jaelle shrugged. “Me too.” She threw the robe over her smock and wrapped the sash around her waist, gathering the fabric into all the right creases and folds and twists as she went, little details that demarcated the wearer to be of the guardian’s station. Her fingers knew them all without thinking, because she’d done it for six thousand years. 

Finally she gazed at the mirror. _Better_ , she thought. _Much better_. She looked like herself. And like a proper guardian, too. 

She reexamined her mental filing cabinet. “Mat?”

“Hm?”

“Technically, there’s more than one box.”

“Yes. Yes, there is.”

“Which one did you check?”

He shrugged. “I figured it was only for awhile. And the last while. And I was curious. Just to know why some humans… For, you know, research.”

“Right.”

“But…”

Jaelle strode over to tap his shoulder. “Which one, Mat?”

He turned back around and instantly flushed red. “Well, he said. “Sort of all of them.”

Jaelle broke into a laugh and quickly stopped herself. “Why?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Well, thanks.”

“For what?” Matarael looked stunned, right up until the moment his hair fell in his face. Then he flinched and fumbled at it. Jaelle pushed the curls back for him. 

“You,” she clarified. “Thanks for being you.”

“Oh. Anytime.” He grinned. “How many did you check?”

“Just one.” 

“I thought you might.”

“You did?”

Jaelle couldn’t help notice how he leaned a little into her hand in his hair. Had he always done that? He said, “I didn’t know _which_ one so I…”

“Ah. I see.” 

Jaelle had a thought then, a perfectly natural and normal thought, she reminded herself, but a thought that, in her rather old-fashioned way of thinking, probably needed a chaperone, a six-inch ruler, and a Bible.

Just then, a booming voice carried from someone in the foyer.

“Raphael, this has taken long enough!”

And the thought had to wait.

* * *

 **A** t the _Best Café_ , the angel and demon ordered their usual, and Aziraphale cracked open the latest edition of the _Celestial Times_. He still had a subscription despite no longer being, as it were, “on staff,” because no one in Heaven’s call centers was brave enough to tell him to cancel. It was the same reason he still had wages. 

“Looks like we’re on schedule.”

“There’s only one problem, my dear, we don’t know what part of the schedule we’re on.”

When their food arrived, the angel and the demon pointedly ignored the television up in the corner as things on the screen tried to get their attention.

“My dear, your coffee’s gone cold.” Aziraphale reached across the table and gave the mug a gentle tap. Instantly, its contents freshened up. 

Crowley tried to smile. He usually liked his coffee black, but everything lately tasted so bitter. 

“Is something in particular the matter?” asked Aziraphale. 

“Oh, there’s the lists of miracles for Adam’s app thingy,” Crowley admitted. He took a bite of toast and beans. “And all the rooftops…” 

“Of course, we’ve much to do,” Aziraphale agreed, still searching the headlines. 

“They’re being awfully quiet Up There. Downstairs too. Nothing on the radio?”

Aziraphale tilted his head and listened. “Just a few reruns of the _Sound of Music_.” He settled back and turned a page. “I’ll admit, it is rather troubling. The bus will be by in a few minutes, if you think it would be wise to check in on your brother…” 

“Not really time for that,” admitted Crowley. “Could make things worse, really.”

But Aziraphale noted, Crowley no longer scowled at the mention of his twin. Raphael’s letter had left a mark. And a kind of firmness to Crowley’s steps the angel hadn’t seen in him before, not in six thousand years. 

Aziraphale finished his eggs benedict in quiet appreciation before he covertly glanced at the television. Most of the angel and demon’s favorite eateries were tuning into the BBC News these days, or had switched off altogether in despair. Today there was a bridge out, and sharks in the Thames. It was not good viewing for the appetite.

On screen, the on-scene reporter looked very uncomfortable, and not just due to the sharks. He couldn’t see the demon pinching him, but his eyes were starting to water. The fiend’s eyes slid sideways and Crowley recognized Discord instantly. 

As the captions (and the reporter) started to break down, the trailing white-on-black text winked through a few arcane symbols that Unicode should not have been able to display, and settled on a steady, repeating promise:

WE CAN MAKE THIS ALL GO AWAY.

Crowley mopped up the last of his beans and took a crisp and vindictive bite of toast. 

It had been the same message running across the televisions and digital billboards for the past six weeks. No specifics were given and no conditions. Crowley assumed it was because the dues were obvious. 

* * *

**J** aelle felt her hand reach for her sword which was, for ceremonial purposes, still hiding in the ether at her side. _Stupid_ , she reprimanded herself. In the toilet of all places.

Instead, she hurried with Matarael into the ward— _Raphael’s_ ward, she reminded herself. No weapons allowed. And, besides that, did she really think she could draw a sword on anyone in Heaven? Training really had turned her mind in the wrong direction. 

The voice bellowed, “Raphael, where are you?”

There was something _wrong_ with it. 

The guardian in Jaelle took over where the soldier’s training failed. Both sides agreed she had to do something. Someone was in trouble. 

There were nurses and patients crowding towards the far end of the ward in concern. Quickly, Jaelle strode in a straight line to the foyer. She’d learned to do this from watching Lord Michael. It got people out of the way, especially if you weren’t smiling.

A calmer voice was saying, “Lord Sandalphon, I’ve told you, he’s not available. Now, if I could pencil you in for an appointment this aftern—”

“Out of the question. I have to escort him to the cathedral before Uriel arrives.”

“Then you’ll have to wait.”

Jaelle reached the front of the foyer’s crowd in time to see Sandalphon’s complexion turn a worrying shade of red. Not just his skin, but his eyes too. The color bled right into his aura.

 _Torchfire_ , Jaelle thought. _What is wrong with that stuff?_

The next instant, she was distracted by the golden tiles of the floor. They were rusting.

Presently, the archangel said, “Ariel, if Raphael doesn’t show his face right now, I will be forced to stop asking nicely.”

“By who, your glory?” asked Jaelle.

Call center skills again. You had to learn to slip into the pauses like you belonged there and not point out when someone wasn’t being nice.

Sandalphon’s jaw dropped. The nurses and surgeons present around Jaelle stepped back. She could tell. There was a breeze. 

“Mi…?” Sandalphon blinked, then the redness flickered like a short circuit. “Oh,” he said. “It’s _you_.”

“Yes, Lord Sandalphon,” Jaelle said.

Matarael did not retreat, but he stared at Jaelle in pale-eyed alarm. 

Sandalphon said, “Why are you always everywhere you're not supposed to be?”

It wasn’t a fair question. So Jaelle did what she’d been doing best since she’d started filing R.A.H.A.B. Reports. She told a bald-faced _truth_ : “I’m supposed to be here.”

“Did Michael send you?”

“Didn’t he send you?” Jaelle asked.

“Yes.”

“He didn’t tell you he sent for me?”

The flicker flickered again. “No.”

“So, I should bring Lord Raphael to the choir room, then, before Lord Uriel arrives, and before I join the prince on the observation deck this afternoon?” asked Jaelle.

“Yes. No.” Sandalphon looked like someone who had lost the signal in their own noise. “I mean—Well, make it quick!”

“Yes, your glory.” 

For good measure, barefoot and tangle-haired in the middle of the hospital foyer, Jaelle saluted.

The lantern red subsided, and gray swirled worriedly into its place as Sandalphon tried to recall ever giving the order. Jaelle held the salute. It was mean to manipulate people, but he was mean, too, so she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Very… good,” Sandalphon said at last, and added, warily, “captain.”

Jaelle did not move until he’d turned on his heel and pushed his way out. He staggered unsteadily as he went. 

There was still tarnish on the golden linoleum.

“How did you do that?” Matarael asked.

Jaelle suddenly broke into the same shakes she got most days after dodging bullets. “I don’t know.” 

If Raphael was the patron archangel of doctors, Ariel was the angel of receptionists, because the clerk and counselor immediately sat back and began sorting files like nothing had interrupted. 

“Thank you for that, Jaelle. Are you alright?”

Jaelle walked over to lean on the desk and Matarael followed her.

“Breathe in. Don’t lock your knees,” Ariel reminded her. “Count back from ten, and remember to breathe out.”

Matarael patted Jaelle on the back worriedly as she did so, then looked at the receptionist. “Ariel, was Lord Sandalphon drunk?”

“You could say that.” Ariel reached under the counter and Jaelle heard a faint buzzer as the receptionist pressed a switch.

A door slid open in the opposite wall. It was a door Jaelle was sure hadn’t been there before.

Raphael leaned out expectantly.

“I know you said not to interrupt,” said Ariel, “But you were also very specific about the other thing.”

Raphael’s eyes flicked to Jaelle, then back to Ariel. He stepped out, touched the door, and it slid back into place like it had never been there. 

“It’s alright,” he said. “You two are just who I was thinking of.”

He crossed to the front desk holding a fresh envelope and a sheath of papers. There was a folder under his arm. 

“Do you have a minute?” he asked them.

“Do you?” asked Jaelle worriedly. Angels didn’t need sleep often, which made it more troubling to see circles under their eyes. 

Raphael passed the folder to Ariel. “Ariel, if you could…”

“Of course.”

“File it under burns, cross-referenced with substance abuse. Tag as required reading for anyone working with brimstone.”

“Sounds about right,” said Ariel. “Referred reading for hellfire?”

“Good point. Make it required, actually.”

By now it seemed like everyone had quickly gone back to their business. Almost too quickly, Jaelle thought. Despite the influx of emergency visitors that had become the usual since April, however, the press of busyness gave the three of them a wide berth.

Matarael glanced at the stain on the floor. “So what is wrong with Lord Sandalphon?” he asked.

“He’s been using Torchfire,” said Jaelle immediately.

“It would seem that way,” Raphael agreed.

“He what?” asked Matarael.

“It’s from Hell,” Jaelle explained. “It makes something like hellfire, except it doesn’t destroy things, just changes them and… I think if you use it too much, it might change you.”

“Without regular applications of holy water,” Raphael added. “From what I understand, it’s some kind of… disordering force. And a gift from your new allies, by the way.”

“That’s horrifying,” said Matarael. “What did we give them?”

“ _That_ is a very good question.” Raphael laid out the pages on the front desk and borrowed Ariel’s quill. Some pages were stiff with age but nearly all contained the ring-within-ring notation of music. The healer plucked a fresh sheet of parchment out from the rest and started writing quickly. 

“The more I learn about that Torch,” said Raphael as he worked, “the more my colleagues seem determined to ignore my reports.”

Jaelle squinted over his shoulder. The letters were nothing she recognized. 

He noticed her staring. “Are you feeling alright, Jaelle?”

Jaelle quickly stepped back. “I have a meeting with Lord Michael today,” she said. “I’ve been worried about… things.”

“Ah, _things_ ,” said Raphael. “Yes, I think worrying about things is an accurate diagnosis for many of us these days. You’re not alone, Jaelle.”

Presently, he rolled the page and one old parchment gently around something from his pocket. Jaelle didn’t have time to catch a glimpse of it, but for an instant it threw a broken ring of rainbow light across the floor. When the ring hit the patch of rust, its colors all flashed in warning slivers of red. 

“Sandalphon is right about one thing,” Raphael remarked, and sealed the envelope with a bit of wax. “I can’t put off meeting Uriel any longer. Matarael?”

“Yes, your glory?”

“This is very important. You know this name and address?”

Matarael took the envelope and read the back of it. Then he read it again, and decided not to say the name out loud. “This is in London, sir…”

“Not a ‘sir.’ Go directly there and talk to no one on the way. You might find it easier to take the Number-Nineteen bus in. It’s a matter of territory. Hide your wings though. People will stare.”

“But…”

“Nothing wrong with following an archangel’s orders?”

Matarael looked at Jaelle, who smiled and shook her head helpfully. 

“Nothing at all,” Matarael said.

“Good.” Raphael passed the rest of the aged pages to Ariel. “And, Ariel, if you could file these under…” He hesitated.

“Inventory?” Ariel suggested.

“That sounds boring enough.” Raphael smiled again. 

Ariel took the pages and turned to the filing cabinets behind her. Jaelle thought she heard the receptionist sniffle a little.

To Matarael Raphael said, “If you’re polite, there should be no problems with the management. The recipient will be there.”

Matarael opened his mouth to ask a question, then seemed to think better of it. Instead he said, “Right. Captain.” He gave Jaelle a quick salute and hurried out. 

Jaelle stayed in place and watched the nurses and doctors go about their business. Was she imagining things, or were there more people in the lobby than before? All busy of course. Exactly as busy as always. As busy as you might expect. But, there were angels from other departments too, not injured or apparently ill, just… loitering. 

Raphael looked down at the rust spot for a long time and Jaelle wondered if she should say anything. He seemed to be deliberating.

At last, Raphael said, “He’s got tinnitus, you know.”

“Who?” asked Jaelle.

“Lord Sandalphon. I’ve offered to help medicate it, but he’s always found solace in sound. It’s a trauma response. Fear carves patterns. It’s a way of feeling in control.”

It was a strange thing to say. Jaelle’s frown deepened. She was thinking suddenly of Esteban again. 

“So,” she said, “what you’re saying is, pain makes scars.”

“That would imply permanence,” said Raphael. “Change is just a bit… difficult. Sometimes it takes medicine, sometimes other means.”

“Like what?”

“Courage. Resourcefulness. No small amount of resolve. Acts of love can make patterns, too.”

Jaelle tried to muster some pity for Lord Sandalphon. It was hard, but she was the sort who’d pity a dictator and so she managed it. “How do you stay so calm these days, Lord Raphael?”

“Lately, I find it helpful to ask myself, ‘What is the worst that could happen?’”

“And that helps?”

“Well, once the worst does happen, what else can they do to you?” Raphael tapped a finger on the desk, which was nothing strange, except Jaelle thought she heard Ariel tap the same pattern on the filing cabinet next. Another surgeon, just a few seconds later, did so with a marker over the appointments board. A nurse in triage made the same beat on a clipboard halfway down the aisle of the ward a few seconds after that. 

And as the sound moved from staff member to staff member through the foyer and then the ward, the healers wing went still. Within a minute, Jaelle could have heard a feather drop.

“Don’t let me keep you,” said Raphael. “We have things to prepare here.”

“What things?”

Ariel sniffed again, and reached over for a tissue box.

Jaelle had the strange feeling she was being stared at, not with eyes—everyone’s eyes were on their work—but with ears. 

“Right,” she said, and, looking through to the ward, which she suspected was also paying her careful mind, said, “I’ll just be going,” but put a hand on the counter. She made an experimental set of taps. When Raphael nodded, she gave him a decisive salute.

“I told you, I’m not a general,” said Raphael with some disapproval.

“And I’m not a soldier,” said Jaelle.

“No.” Raphael smiled a little. “I am very glad of that, Jaelle.”

* * *

 **K** nocks usually meant solicitors, so when Anathema answered the bookshop door around lunchtime, she gave more than her usual weighted stare. 

The angel on the doorstep nearly fainted. 

Anathema quickly rearranged her expression, if only for curiosity’s sake.

“Sorry, can I help you with something?” she asked.

The angel tossed a small parcel between his hands like he might a hot potato. He looked up and down the street. He was getting stares. It was probably the ankle-length robes that did it, Anathema thought. London dirt was usually too stubborn to be so easily repelled.

He said, “Sorry, I might have the wrong address.”

“You’re an angel.”

“How did you know?”

“Because you have the right address.”

“Uh, how do you know, miss, Mr. um...”

“Anathema,” said Anathema helpfully. “And you can skip all that ‘fear not’ business.”

“Oh, I forgot about that…” The angel pushed a bundle of curls from his face. “I’ve a letter for a _Mr. A.J. Crowley_?”

“Do you?” said Anathema, now braced quite casually in the doorway. “That’s nice. This shop belongs to a Mr. A.Z. Fell.”

“Lord Raphael said he would be here.”

“Yeah, buddy, that’s me.” Crowley immediately popped his head around the doorframe. He cradled a newspaper boat of fish ’n’ chips. “Were you followed, Mr. Postman?”

“Goodness me, you two are incorrigible.” Aziraphale insinuated himself in the doorway and took the other angel by the arm. “Not to worry, my good fellow, he doesn’t bite—guests, that is. You’ve just caught us having a bit of lunch. My, it looks like you could do with a cup of tea.”

“But I can’t be seen here…” 

“Best get you off the porch then.” Aziraphale glanced at Anathema, who was already drawing the blinds, and he gave the angel a tug across the threshold.

Crowley popped a chip in his mouth, flipped the window sign to _closed_ , and shut the door with one last glance at the street.

* * *

 **T** he observation deck was abandoned. The archangels by now would be out on whatever business they didn’t think Jaelle or her thousand knew about, she thought; and so Jaelle arrived alone. 

_What is witch reconnaissance?_ she thought. _If the world is supposed to end why should we worry about witches?_

She gave the Torch a wide berth and glanced just a moment at the globe.

 _But if the archangels are_ making _the world end, is it actually_ supposed _to be ending?_

Raphael’s strained expression gnawed at her. And all that talk about the worst that could happen… What was Sandalphon’s summons about?

Jaelle eyed the Torch suspiciously, then turned at a flash of light from the navigation globe. The light tightened into a small blizzard, and deposited Gabriel, who dropped into an easy stride. He was whistling Rodgers and Hammerstein’s _I’ve Got Confidence_ , which wasn’t surprising at all. He looked it. 

Before Jaelle could react, there was another flash. With it, Uriel and Michael arrived. Uriel folded her skylark wings neatly as she opened some fluttery bit of light that resolved itself into a map of the British Isles. 

“And that’s Wales,” she announced to no one in particular, marking it with a quill. She refolded the page and passed it to Gabriel. The other angel set it in a folder with several others. 

“And that’s the world,” he added.

“We’ll manage the extractions all at once,” Michael said with far less enthusiasm. “Now we just have to see how Sandalphon has managed up here.”

Gabriel and Uriel exchanged a sympathetic look. 

“Don’t worry about it, Michael. We’ll take care of everything,” said Uriel. 

“ _Don’t_ overdo it.”

“It’d be perfectly understandable not to involve yourself,” added Gabriel. 

“It feels irresponsible. Just _do not_ overdo it.”

They noticed Jaelle. For just an instant all three archangels looked like children caught with their hands in a cookie jar. Jaelle knew the look, because she’d been a guardian to more than a dozen mothers in possession of children and cookie jars both. 

The next instant, Gabriel waved the folder by way of a greeting.

“Well, _Captain_ Jaelle, airing out the old threads?”

Jaelle threw a salute. 

“Captain, you’re early,” said Michael.

“Yes, your grace,” said Jaelle, and fought an apology. The prince’s smile seemed thinner than usual. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No business in your department,” Gabriel chided. “What’s that human saying? Michael?”

“‘Curiosity killed the cat,” Michael provided, still oddly subdued.

“‘But satisfaction brought it back,’” said Jaelle.

For some reason, at this Uriel patted Michael’s shoulder and chuckled. 

Gabriel beamed and slapped the folder into Jaelle’s hands. “Well, then you can file this for us and we’ll be on our way,” he said. “Congratulations.”

“What for?”

Uriel snapped her fingers and an instant escalator dropped into the floor at her feet. Gabriel followed her down. After serving its purpose, the moving stair vanished in a pretty twist of emerald smoke. 

Behind her, Jaelle heard Michael sigh. When she turned back around, he walked to the long window and stared out at the falling towers. Jaelle looked back towards the disappearing escalator, and realized they were alone. Then she realized she still didn’t know why. 

Jaelle opened the folder Gabriel had handed her, searching for a clue. It was full of maps and, she realized, not a few R.A.H.A.B. Reports. She ran a thumb across the corners and countered about thirty. Scribbled in the corner of each was a note in gold ink, something about a ‘clause of St. Philip.’” Jaelle made a mental note, and closed the folder quickly. Nothing for it. She joined Michael at the window.

The prince looked worried. It was subtle, but Jaelle had recently been making a study of his smiles with her survival in mind. The hands were even easier to read. Like Jaelle, it seemed the prince liked to keep them busy, so much that when there was nothing to hold he clasped them in front of him or wrung them at the small of his back so they wouldn’t set off without him. The latter made Jaelle think of a child who fears showing a scowling adult his dirty hands. 

It was a strange impression. Everything about this was strange. 

Jaelle hugged the file dutifully. In the distance, half a twin ziggurat collapsed in quiet thunder.

“Is that the view everyday?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Jaelle weighed the risks of further smalltalk. 

“They’ve really been trying to reach us forever, haven’t they?” she said.

“Mere mortals will always fall short.” Michael frowned, then recited, “But ‘a man’s reach must exceed the grasp, or what’s a Heaven for?’”

“Is that… Browning?”

“Yes. _Andrea del Sarto_. He invoked the angels. We pay attention to that sort of thing.” 

“I suppose Heaven’s ‘for’ making up the distance,” Jaelle suggested, swallowing when Michael cast her a startled sidelong look. “You know, reaching back,” she explained.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Michael admitted. He dropped his hands and reclasped them in front of him, and that was a good sign. “Did I catch you on a day off, captain?”

Jaelle remembered her appearance. But she wasn’t about to recount her argument with the trash bin. “Not exactly,” she said, “but I was congratulating Captain Ariya on his recovery, and I’m between uniforms at the moment.”

The full impact of the report seemed to hit Michael late. “Captain Ariya’s returning to the field?’

“In a week. After rehabilitation.”

“And what will you be doing after that?”

“I’ll just be in infantry again, your grace allowing,” said Jaelle. 

“Should I?” Michael asked. “You sound like a prisoner at an execution.”

Jaelle’s pulse doubled and she reminded herself to breathe. What was the worst that could happen? She didn’t want to think of it. “I’m not looking forward to it,” she admitted.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” said Michael.

“It is?”

“Yes.” The prince cleared his throat on a fist. “Because anyone can be a footsoldier. I’d hate to be taking you away from something important.”

Jaelle thought suddenly, not just of Raphael, but of her own R.A.H.A.B. Reports. Had the prince found out then? Was that the end of it? Was she alone up here for some kind of trial while Raphael was questioned below? What if she was the reason he was in trouble? 

“Have I done something wrong?” she asked.

Glancing sideways, Michael looked Jaelle up and down, seemed to realize how taunt her every muscle had become, and immediately softened his smile.

“I’m giving you a promotion, Captain,” he explained.

“What?”

“Raphael has… Well, after Gabriel’s situation mended, he recommended the generals not frequent fiery battlefields.”

“Oh my.”

“Yes, well. Obviously, we still need eyes and ears on the ground, ones we can trust. So I’m making you my attaché.”

Jaelle was suddenly dizzy with relief. “What would… what is an attaché exactly?”

“You would be assisting me personally,” said Michael. “Taking and relaying orders. And acting in my stead if need calls for it.”

“In your… But, what about Myriad? She’s a messenger.”

“An attaché needs to improvise. And you’d be in charge of paperwork from hereon in.”

“All of it?”

Michael actually laughed, but there was something strained in the sound. “Of course not,” he said. “I’d expect you to bring along any personnel the other captains can spare. You’ll retain your rank as captain off the field, just to make things easier, but you’ll be addressed as ‘marshal’ there.”

“Oh.”

“And, I’ve already cleared your license for minor miracles with AR. You can pick it up when you inquire about your new office. I expect you to be prepared for your role by next week.”

“Yes, your grace,” Jaelle said automatically, still trying to grasp the news.

“You won’t disappoint me.”

It was not a question and Jaelle didn’t know what to say. She hugged the folder tighter, and nodded, but she was vaguely aware she was losing her balance, as if the floor were starting to tilt. 

Michael broke off further explanation and caught her arm for support. “Are you alright, soldier?”

This morning Jaelle had been sick over a demotion, but now she was getting vertigo from the ascent. “Lord Michael, is this because I’m a lousy warrior?” she asked.

“Quite the contrary, Jaelle.” Somehow Michael looked even more apologetic than before, which just made the whole thing stranger. “No, I just think it’s best to keep you—”

He stopped. A clear voice was carrying up from the lower levels. It was singing—beautifully.

> _There is no time for us._ _  
> __There is no place for us._ _  
> __What is this thing that builds our dreams_ _  
> __Yet slips away from us?_

Michael stood stiff as faint music chimed in softly under the voice, wove with it, then swelled. Jaelle realized it must be coming from the central choir room. The chamber was built just under the Library and styled for acoustics. From just the right spot, music would carry to every level in Heaven.

> _Who wants to live forever?_ _  
> __Who wants to live forever?_

Jaelle could feel the stillness in the air, like the whole of Heaven held its breath. Even the gentle creak of the revolving Library paused. The distant lapping of the crystal lake went silent.

> _There’s no chance for us._ _  
> __It’s all decided for us._ _  
> __This world has only one sweet moment_ _  
> __Set aside for us._
> 
> _Who wants to live forever?_ _  
> __Who wants to live forever?_ _  
> __Who dares to love forever—when love must die?_

Jaelle was only aware from the prince’s hand on her arm that he was shivering. Her own vision blurred with tears. Something about the song seemed to squeeze her heart right out of her chest. She put her hand over Michael’s and they stood that way through the final refrain. 

> _But touch my tears with your lips._ _  
> __Touch my world with your fingertips._ _  
> __And we can have forever._ _  
> __And we can love forever—forever is our today._
> 
> _Who wants to live forever?_ _  
> __Who wants to live forever?_ _  
> __Forever is our today._ _  
> __Who waits forever anyway?_

Had she heard this before? Not in Enochian, no. Jaelle hastily wiped her eyes dry and clutched her chest. 

“It’s perfect,” said Michael.

Jaelle glanced left to see the prince had tears running unchecked down his face as well. He was squinting ahead like he was trying to see the horizon through them.

“Are you alright, your grace?” Jaelle asked.

Michael blinked. He seemed to come back to himself. “Sorry, I…” He stepped back and swiped at his eyes, then looked up again, as if still caught in a memory. “It’s a bit unexpected. I should… What was I saying?”

“Was that Raphael?” asked Jaelle.

“Raphael?” Michael looked shocked, then confused. “He’s…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing with him. It’s that _brother_ of his.” Michael snapped his fingers and the escalator reappeared. “Don’t worry yourself about it. Just get some rest.”

Jaelle waited for him to leave before she looked at her reflection again, and then through her reflection to the entropic horizon. She set a hand on the glass. It was shaking.

The word “brother” had felt like a curse. 

* * *

**“T** he twenty-first?”

Anathema glanced at the wall calendar, which was, admittedly, the strangest normal reaction to someone announcing the date of the End of the World. After all, what were you going to do? Circle it in red and change your dental appointments? 

Crowley’s reaction was more appropriate.

“Bloody Hell!”

Matarael hadn’t stopped shaking. Aziraphale poured him another cup of tea encouragingly, despite the reluctant messenger having spilled much of the last one into its saucer.

“Bloody Hell. Bloody Heaven. Bloody whole _Universe_ I mean, _crepes_ , on the birthday of the world? October twenty-first. The audacity! The _spite_. And that’s in only, what? A few weeks? We ought to storm the gates right now and have what for.”

“That would be rather unwise,” said Aziraphale. “Was there anything else, dear?”

He set down the teapot and watched Crowley pace. The demon held the ciphered letter open in one hand. He hadn’t stopped gripping the spectrometer either.

“Yeah, he finished my song.” Crowley’s temper cooled suddenly like a put-out candle. “Nice touch, really. Freddie and Brian tuned in nicely to it. Sounds better in English, if I may be partial, but I’ll give them this, they… he’s got the spirit of it.”

“Lovely,” said Aziraphale gently. He spoke a bit more firmly to the guardian-turned-soldier, as it seemed the other angel might need it. “Now, Matarael, was it?”

“My friends call me Mat.” 

“Yes, of course.”

“Mat” had by now finished his second half cup of tea, and the saucer was spilling onto the carpet. 

Aziraphale tried not to flinch as he thought of the stains. “We are quite grateful, Mat,” he said. “Why not let us help you get back?” He passed over a tea towel, then miracled a second one for good measure. 

“Odds are they’ll miss you if you’re gone long,” Crowley added. 

“I suppose. It’s kinda mad up there.”

“Wouldn’t doubt it.” Crowley turned on his heel and shrugged. 

A few moments later, they escorted Matarael to the central part of the room. By now he held a crumpet wrapped in a napkin. Crowley turned back the rug and Aziraphale lit all but one of a few ornate copper lamps around the chalk circle. Crowley passed a spare candle to Aziraphale.

“Now, you might want to do the bit where you put on a halo,” he said, climbing the wrought iron staircase. “Otherwise, that glowing light will dissolve your corporation into a mess of paperwork—week’s worth at least.” He picked up something from a stand halfway up. Freed from another chalk pattern, the Philosopher’s Stone glowed blue to the circle’s white.

Matarael’s eyes widened. “Is that—?”

“Yup,” said Crowley. “Seems your demon friends misplaced it.”

Matarael swallowed hard and shrugged out a halo and his aura for good measure. The crumpet promptly toasted. 

“Oops,” he said and, panicking, shoved the whole thing in his mouth. Crowley turned away to stifle a laugh. _Poor sot_ , he thought. _He didn’t ask for this_.

But neither had they. 

“I’m sure you’ve some experience with these,” Aziraphale explained patiently. “We’ll send you right back to headquarters, wherever you came from last.”

“Barracks,” said Matarael.

“Yes, well, that will do.”

“See you in October,” said Crowley. He touched the Philosopher’s Stone just as Aziraphale lit the last lamp. In a flash of familiar light, the reluctant messenger vanished. Crowley laughed as Aziraphale broke the ring by pinching out a lamp.

“You two are so mean,” said Anathema with a smirk.

“Can’t have them knowing it works without this,” said Crowley. “Word will get around now. Pretty sure not the way the archangels would like either. ‘The traitors of Soho have the Philosopher’s Stone.’ And thus, the only truly inextinguishable supply of holy water.”

And now we have a deadline,” said Anathema. “Thanks to your brother.”

Crowley shrugged. He looked at the letter again, then rolled its pages slowly, turning the stone absently on one chalk-dusted hand.

“Crowley?” said Aziraphale worriedly.

The demon tucked away the page in a pocket of his shirt, then pushed off the railing and started up the rest of the stairs. “Right,” he said. “If you’ll both excuse me… No rest for the wicked. Stitches in time to make nine and… something.” 

He disappeared into the eaves on the second level. Aziraphale heard a window scrape open. The fire escape clanked and the window shut. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale whispered. “I was afraid it might be that.”

* * *

 **T** hese days, there was always someone singing somewhere in Heaven, or at least humming when they didn’t know the words. Hymns mostly, or the occasional psalm. The only other sanctioned listening was the _Sound of Music_ because, it had been decided long ago, it was alright for Heaven to have a single indulgence if the Almighty approved of it. If you didn’t like it, you probably just weren’t listening hard enough. 

_[Author’s note: The question “How do you solve a problem like Maria?” takes on a certain rhetorical flavor among those who, as part of their daily business, regularly have to catch a cloud and pin it down.]_

A special sort of music happened in the choir room. The space was known colloquially among residents as the cathedral, and it had subliminally informed every concert hall and choir loft in existence. Every candle stood bright and vigilant on each stand. Every stained glass window resonated in perfect harmony. The acoustics on stage were nothing to sneeze at either. For one thing, everyone would know. 

After six thousand years, Uriel knew the traditional songs by heart, and so did the orchestra and the chorus, but that didn’t make directing, playing, or singing any less enjoyable. The orchestra’s instruments were of silver and gold, but for the great drums of wood and brass, which boomed like thunder. When the entire choir sang it was like the roar of an ocean in a windstorm and just as exhilarating. 

What Uriel had not enjoyed all this time was that every few centuries of accomplishment, someone else would come in and present something they’d been working on—“on the side,” as a hobby. She would not have minded it so much, but now and then that someone had been _Raphael_.

Heartfelt praise and gratitude were, of course, virtues. But what business did he have being that good at it? There was nothing special about it when Uriel did it almost every day. But Raphael? Well, when it was Raphael, everyone talked about it for weeks after. It had always made Uriel feel—and rightly so, she’d reminded herself—that angels weren’t appreciating the _classics_ enough, and that they weren’t appreciating _her_. It was just like how all the humans walked around on Earth and never looked at the sun. 

Today she couldn’t help feeling vindicated. 

_We should have seen it really_ , she thought to herself. _Lucifer’s voice was beautiful, too_. 

Uriel sat in the pews, threading red fire between her fingers in time with the chorus. Perhaps not a good idea near so much candlelight, but whose orders had those been? As the last measures ended, she brushed the fire back into her skin like warm lotion, and beat her hands in applause. Sandalphon followed suit at a faster pace. Beside them, Gabriel patted his palm at barely a clap, his usual warm and cheerful light already gone gray with purpose.

In front of the low stage, Raphael looked back at them, frowning past the candlelight around him. He stepped down from the rostrum before speaking, so the acoustics wouldn’t carry.

“It’s not that sort of song,” he said. Behind him, the wary conductor collected the score.

Uriel shrugged. “We know,” she said. She stood up and strode purposefully forward down the aisle. She gave the musicians— _her_ musicians, she reminded herself—a nod and they hurried out. “But this will be your last performance for a long time, Raphael.”

Because that was a cue, as soon as the pit was empty, there was a cacophony of marching boots. It made the candles on the stands and tables jump and shiver. Raphael shut his eyes like the sound hurt.

In just a few moments he was surrounded by soldiers carrying halberds. Uriel was just a little disappointed the healer didn’t try to break free.

“Are these Michael’s orders?” he asked instead.

“You think so?”

“I notice our brother is absent.”

“Our ‘brother’?” Sandalphon huffed from the pews. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“You don’t seem surprised, Raphael,” added Gabriel.

“I guess these days I believe anything’s possible.” Raphael looked up to watch as Gabriel and Sandalphon joined Uriel at the front of the room. “May I at least know what I’m being charged with?”

“Well, first, I’ll say that we _know_ warriors and healers have very different goals,” said Gabriel. “Michael especially hopes this is all just a misunderstanding, but we can’t be too careful.”

“But we’re at war, Raphael,” Uriel added flatly. “You should be glad we’re only arresting you.”

“I understand that I am being arrested, Uriel,” said Raphael patiently, “but I am still waiting to know for _what_.”

“Alright.” Gabriel folded his arms, “Archangel Raphael, archangel of health and healing, you stand accused of working against and defying the Great Plan, and of trying to save the world—both acts against the will of Heaven.”

“But on what grounds am I accused?”

Sandalphon turned up a bright smile. “It seems the demon Crowley has stolen the Philosopher’s Stone,” he said. 

“Seems?” Raphael echoed. “How do you not _know_?”

“Of course there’ll be a public report about it on the radio tonight,” added Gabriel.

Something in Raphael’s face changed. The confusion evaporated. His expression settled into something solemn. 

“And a report about this arrest as well, I assume,” he suggested. “And perhaps printed in the _Times_ tomorrow, too?”

“Now, don’t be so grave,” said Gabriel. “We have a comfortable cell set up for you in Limbo with a nice ring of hellfire to keep you warm. Visits will be monitored of course—standard protocol—and we’ll have to question your staff.”

“Forgive me, my brothers, my sister, but what exactly am I being accused of _doing_?”

Sandalphon shrugged. “Well, clearly someone must have helped the demon.”

The look of understanding did not waver so much as invite distress to join it. 

Gabriel said, “Raphael, you _do_ realize the seriousness of this accusation?”

“Do you, brother?”

“Again with the ‘brother,’” said Sandalphon sourly. 

“Raphael, if you’ve aided that traitor in any way and don’t confess and repent—you’ll force us to take this to trial,” said Gabriel. “It doesn’t look good for you. After all, everyone knows your views on war.”

There was a long, terrible silence as the candles stood watch. 

“And that is your proof?” said Raphael. “That a doctor doesn’t like to see people hurt?”

“I’m afraid we cannot tolerate sedition, Raphael,” said Gabriel. 

“Is it sedition to care?”

Uriel scoffed. “Stop talking, Raphael. You’re already in enough trouble.”

“Have you all forgotten?” Raphael asked. Up against the rostrum, his voice carried. “I know the plan as well as you do, but three years ago, a human decided the world wouldn’t end, and She listened. It’s not wrong to wonder if it doesn’t have to be like this anymore, and it’s not wrong to grieve the outcome if it will. Gabriel, you were there—”

“We have our orders,” said Gabriel.

“ _Damn_ your orders.”

“That sounds like a confession to me,” said Uriel, and nodded to a soldier, who turned and drove a fist into the unarmed archangel’s gut. Raphael doubled over and collapsed gasping against the rostrum like a pile of firewood. The candle flames flickered.

“One last chance, Raphael,” said Uriel. “Did you give Crowley the Philosopher’s Stone?”

“You want me to save myself with a _lie_?”

“It’s a simple question.”

Raphael looked up, and despite herself, Uriel took a step back. Not because his eyes were angry, or even tinted red. But because they were the emerald green that he’d been born with. It was a frightening thing to see—although she could not have said why—an angel, being who they were born to be. 

He said, “Then answer it, Uriel.”

Uriel’s stomach twisted, and suddenly all she could think of was Lucifer. She grit her teeth and pushed forward past the guard to lay Raphael out with a fisted blow. She stepped on his hand and pushed down for good measure until he screamed. 

That, too, carried.

“Now Uriel,” said Gabriel. “Remember what Michael said.”

“Take him away,” Uriel told the sergeant. “And don’t keep it a secret what happens to traitors in Heaven.”

* * *

 **A** white circle flared in the barracks and deposited Matarael on the floor. The journey had been like spaghettification and evaporation had a cousin. It left him horribly disoriented as he shook off his outer light and returned his corporation to what he thought of as normal, but as soon as he trusted his stomach to know which ways were up and down he stood up and looked around. He was alone, and that was a good thing, moreso because he had tea stains on his robes. 

The lights in the barracks were kept low since the main purpose of the place was sleep, so as the lit circle dimmed, the soft shadows crept back. Matarael sighed in relief.

No guardian _liked_ the barracks. For one thing, they were horribly uncomfortable. The beds were quartered off into stalls every couple of feet, which made it seem like it had been built for livestock instead of people, and the beds had only hard, thin mattresses, as if being a soldier meant you should hurt both on and off the battlefield. 

Of course, this was the wing of the barracks currently occupied by Jaelle’s thousand, and they’d quartered off the stalls with curtains in an attempt to make them more homely (which for guardians meant more cubicle-like). Odds and ends from the office had been brought down to warm up the place by decorating its ledges. There were rubix cubes and bobbleheads, as well as a drinking bird toy, a quote-a-day desk calendar several weeks behind, and even a mug that read, because someone had thought it rather funny, _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes_? 

Matarael hurried into his cubicle-like room and changed his robe for a new one. He was just fumbling with his sash when he heard a sniffle three doors down.

Navigating the compartments of narrow beds, Matarael found Jaelle curled up on her pallet in the captain’s room, which was little more than the exact same thing as all the others, but with a bit more space for a desk. She was wrapped in her wings and curled up on top of the sheets, her feet still bare and her eyes now red like she had been crying for some time. Matarael felt instantly guilty for taking so long at tea.

Years of experience with both humans and angels told Matarael not to bother with too many questions. Instead, he found a box of tissues and miracled a glass of water for good measure, because hangovers from weeping were a very real affliction that just added to the misery later. He brought these into the room and sat down at the desk. 

“Was it bad?” he asked, passing the glass.

“The worst.”

Matarael calculated again, then set down the tissue box. He stood up, took one more look around the barracks just in case, and then shut the curtains on them both, and asked another question.

* * *

 **M** ichael pulled out his phone at the West Gate and paced, juggling the device because his hands wouldn’t stay still. After a moment, he put it away. Then he pulled it out again. He put it away.

He thought of Jaelle, and wished he’d given more assurance than he had. He felt like he’d run away. He hadn’t even finished what he’d been trying to say. 

_“I just think it’s best to keep you safe.”_

It was too late now, to warn her about Raphael. But maybe that should be his burden, not hers. So much already was. What was one thing more?

Michael pulled out his phone, then drew up his call history and tapped the top of the list. He paced again, and listened until the ring cut off—

“Where can we meet?”

“ _Hello also, your gracefulness. A bit late, isn’t it?_ ”

“Hell would be preferable to here.”

There was a pause as Duke Hastur seemed to calculate. In the background, Michael could hear the snarls and howls of hellhounds restless in their cages. 

At last he said, “ _Give me five minutes, your high-and-mightiness. I know a place_.”

* * *

 **W** ithout waiting to be asked, Aziraphale brought his easel up to the roof that night while Crowley worked by starlight, because there were things no one should sit through alone. He waited for the radio report and did not speak when it came, but it was a burst of news—terrible news—after such a long silence. At least he had committed a crime, he thought. Heaven really was becoming—what was that phrase Anathema sometimes used? Ah yes: _unhinged_.

Aziraphale set aside his pallet, folded his smock, and asked Crowley about the letter. His demon hadn’t removed his sunglasses yet, but beckoned him to the center of the chalk circle. Instead of talking, they looked at the stars.

There were a dozen now on that roof alone, all hovering over the chalk vertices while the Philosopher’s Stone hummed. There were now several elsewhere in the city, too, but these were less obvious. They had to be. It was part of the plan. 

“Oh, Crowley,” sighed Aziraphale as he sat. “How lovely.”

Crowley turned the spectrometer to read stories in the light. “There are connections between astronomy and medicine, angel,” he said. “Most humans don’t even realize it. The farther they go, the closer they get to home.”

He choked on the last word. 

“Yes, I’m led to believe the same,” Aziraphale agreed, and didn’t call him out on it.

“No one braver than my brother, angel,” said Crowley. He still hadn’t taken his sunglasses off. He was staring skyward now, clutching the crystal in his hand. “Did I ever tell you, we pulled Sandalphon out of a supernova?”

“Yes, my dear.” Aziraphale took his hand. “But tell me again.”

* * *

 **I** t was midnight, Eden Standard Time, and Jaelle sat in the room marked _Brimstone Stores_.

She turned the pages in the folder and tried to understand what she was looking at while the hissing waves licked the jagged shore. She didn’t know the names. Were they important? The ages and occupations all seemed random. Then there were the other files, fresh on her desk in the office she’d only acquired that afternoon. They contained information like the trajectory of a falling star already on course for earth. There was one file left all on its own apart from the rest. It was marked _Soho_.

Jaelle could access any files she wanted now. Part of the evening had been spent marveling at this fact. That was what it meant to be the prince’s attaché, whatever else it might mean in the future. Jaelle could know everything. Go anywhere. She could take anything directly from the EO Archives without so much of a by-your-leave. There was power in being the prince’s assistant, and with it a danger—to herself and to anyone under her. Nothing hidden wouldn’t come to light eventually, so it was just a matter of time and place.

For now, she’d call it research. At least that wouldn’t be a lie. If you started lying to others, she thought, it wouldn’t be long until you lied to herself. She’d learned that from Esteban. She’d learned so much from him that it _hurt_.

Ariel had warned her away from Limbo. It wouldn’t do to be seen there. At the same time, the receptionist had recommended this room for whatever happened next. Jaelle hadn’t inquired too closely about that. Ariel had been having a hard day.

Movement in the corner of her eye made her pause in turning pages. The door. Its hinges didn’t squeal. She wondered if there was a way to fix that. They’d need some kind of alarm. Maybe bells.

Jaelle didn’t look up again until Matarael’s feet stopped in front of her. “There you are,” he said warmly.

Jaelle looked up, and, despite telling herself she wouldn’t, blushed a little at how openly he smiled. 

“Was anyone interested?” she asked.

The door opened again.

Jaelle stared at it and closed the folder as Matarael offered her a hand up. She didn’t stop staring, because every time the door opened, at least two angels came through it, and the door kept opening, again and again. 

The storeroom was a large chamber with a sizeable shoreline. By the time the door fell completely shut, it was full. Mat carried over a crate from the archive. He turned the box upside down and Jaelle stared at it, then out at the crowd. 

“No fights with gravity now,” he said.

He offered a hand again, and she took it in hers, wondered why it had taken years to realize how well they fit together. 

“Mat?”

“Yeah?”

“There are at least four thousand angels here.”

“Five thousand, four hundred,” Mat said. “Ariel says we can pass word along to the nurses. They couldn’t get away. And I had to avoid Ariya and some of the others. They’re a bit too zealous about the new positions.”

“And the guardians in the chorus?”

“Uriel’s gotten to them. We’ll have to go at them one by one, see if anyone’s keeping a low profile.”

“Right.”

Jaelle drew a deep breath and stepped up onto the crate. Matarael squeezed her hand once before she let it go. Looking out again, Jaelle pulled out her sword, but only to tap a quick but clear staccato beat on the side of the wood.

And then they were all silent and looking at her. 

“Well…” Jaelle cleared her throat. She put away the sword because it wouldn’t do if that was her first impression. Tucking the folder under one arm, she took a deep breath as the vertigo came back, and she remembered not to lock her knees, counted down from ten, and remembered to breathe out again. 

And then she smiled. 

“Well, everyone,” she said. “I guess we’re doing this.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics are, of course [_Who Wants to Live Forever_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1waL65aMOQ) by Queen, but my head cannon is that Crowley used to hang out with Queen and they tune into the same outer world resonances that make all good music, and so coincidentally they came up with the exact same song. 
> 
> The title was the last thing I had to come up with and I’m surprised it wasn’t the first.


	19. Chapter the Nineteenth – Taking Account

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the last pieces are set in place, last scenes are scripted, last chances are given, and the world holds its breath for the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I'm working on the next 4 chapters simultaneously and this ought to be interesting...
> 
> tw/cw: for a brief mention of suicide

**_A_** s the Order of the Universe continued to unravel, Chaos grew restless and curious and peered through with a growing interest, blinking curiously at all the people not looking up, and hoping very much that someone would invite her in to play.

* * *

**A** great deal of time can be saved with a lanyard.

“Alright everyone, look alive, look alive. Remember the routine. We’re behind schedule, but we can implement these emergency measures easily-breezily if everyone of you would just take the five minutes to read the pamphlet on your desks.”

Crowley snapped his fingers and the fruitless searches through trays of paperwork suddenly revealed pamphlets dated a month previous. They were the tacky colorful kind unique to PSA publications. There were comical chicken characters and page titles like, “What’s up when stuff comes down,” and “Better safe than on fire.” 

Newt had helped sketch the early proofs. 

Crowley strolled between cubicles with efficient little nods of approval. He had donned both his lanyard _and_ emergency jacket for this. And, because it was a special occasion, he’d even brought his clipboard.

The floor manager tailed him at a slightly slower pace and, as a result, was being left behind.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I don’t think we schedule public services for Sundays—”

“Must have missed it, check the calendar again,” said Crowley.

“But—”

“Check again, my good sssir,” Crowley repeated, and smiled over his shoulder.

The manager’s scuttled away, not entirely in control of his feet.

Crowley went on, “I don’t know why it’s taken so long for them to send me, but I don’t hold it against anybody. I’m just glad to be doing my job and being paid for it, aren’t we all?”

The sales department had been, until that moment, an unpleasant place to work. Most places that involve capitalism are, as a matter of course. (The reach must exceed the grasp, or what’s a boardroom for?)

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” asked the man at the copy machine. That morning he had been hoping to be left in peace to stare at the wall in existential dread. He was quite put out for being interrupted. Also, his name was Paul.

“Eye condition,” said Crowley, “Horrible really. Now then, we’ll walk when I sound the alarm like so—” 

Crowley gave his airhorn a _toot!_ and everyone cursed—except Jill in Layout, who said, “Sugar!” because she was trying to do better. 

“—and we’ll start the route.” Crowley flipped a clipboard page for the look of the thing. “We’ll do a few rounds. Just follow the map in your pamphlet, and don’t step on anything chalky that looks like geometry. Right. All set? Here we go…” 

* * *

**S** amuel A. Wyatt, statistician, stockholder, and junior business strategist at Omega International Trading, was most often addressed by older members of the board as, “What was your name, kid?”

He was the youngest. Not in awhile either, but _ever_. He was not even thirty. 

Omega International had moved its company offices into 52 Lime Street upon the highrise’s completion. The sharp-looking building was nicknamed the Scalpel. Its conference room on the top floor was just the kind of impressive waste of space Sam hoped to afford one day. Its broad windows faced the Thames and on clear days like this he came up early to be alone and gaze down the street at the Shard.

“The Shard of Glass” was owned by an overseas company. It stood stuck through the heart of London, and the shortened name was born from a byword in a review that had said so. But eventually it had stayed around long enough and looked impressive enough to claim its ground. 

“Coffee, Mr. Wyatt?”

Someone in pale blue crossed back from the percolator with a tray, two mugs, and a look of inquiry. Some people have an aura about them like they own a place and this person was one of them. Sam was still learning how to wear such a look himself. It was a bit like getting used to a coat you knew would be comfortable if it didn’t always feel one size too big. 

Sam glanced at the closed double doors. Odd, he thought. He hadn’t seen this person come in. 

He put his distraction down to nerves and set his briefcase down to free his hands up for a cup. It was unspoken protocol to ignore the help. Maybe he was just getting good at it. 

The newcomer added, “I’d offer something stronger, but it’s not even nine yet,” and smiled.

And that made Sam smile back. “I’ve been up all night. Coffee’s fine… um…”

“Michael.”

“As in, Angelo?”

“You could say that. But you can just call me Michael, Mr. Wyatt.”

“Well, Michael, since you’re the first to call me ‘Mr.’ around here, would you call me Sam instead?”

That smile was beneficent. Maybe Sam’s day was getting better. 

Sam nodded at the empty seats of the boardroom table. There was, of course, the seat at the head for the CEO. And then there were the others.

Ten of them.

Michael sat at the corner near the head of the table which meant, Sam decided, he should sit beside or across. The only alternative was the CEO’s chair.

But as he made for the far side, Michael said, “They’ll be about an hour,” and Sam hesitated, because it felt like a nudge. Michael laughed when he decided to go for it. He was not surprised to learn it was the most comfortable chair in the room. 

Sam said, “I could get in so much trouble.”

“What they don’t know won’t hurt you.”

Sam looked out over what he now thought of as the lesser thrones, and picked up his coffee again. He smirked. It wouldn’t hurt, would it?

The conversation that followed felt like the most natural thing in the world. Michael was composed, well-dressed, and smart. He had the ease of someone who had been around, and he held his coffee cup like he’d done it a million times. You could let your mouth run away with you, talking to someone like that.

Eventually it came up that Michael was a temp.

“I’m taking a break,” Michael explained. “I like to meet new people.”

“What did you do before this?” Sam asked.

“Regional Management.”

“And now you’re making coffee?”

“The position is rather stressful: I lost a third of my department once.”

“Goodness.”

“Yes. Head Office was very strict. I made the cut of course, but—”

“But with that hanging over your head, no wonder you left.”

The ex-manager looked surprised for just a moment. Then he went back to smiling neutrally and took another sip of coffee. He said, “You’ve been here since eight, I hear. Big day?”

“Not exactly.” Sam decided it wouldn’t hurt: “Actually, if you’re looking for permanent advancement, I was thinking of putting in my letter of resignation today.”

“Oh?”

“When the ship’s sinking, smart men and rats jump into the ocean,” Sam explained, daring to show her the page from his briefcase. He didn’t know if it was nerves or the coffee or that smile that told him it couldn’t hurt. “I’ve got enough tucked away for the end of the world.”

“The end of the world?”

“Just a figure of speech.” 

Michael gave the letter a close look that clearly wasn’t for show. “How so?” he asked.

“Mr. Colier is retiring today. We’ve got a cake and everything. I’ll be at the mercy of the president and whoever else is left, and these long-term company plans on the table—they’re not going to work. No sound economic theory could work gambling on trade wars. I should salvage what portfolio I can before the bubble pops.”

“Can it really be as bad as all that?”

Sam leaned in hopefully, “Mr. Colier, the CEO that is, he hasn’t bothered to plan for it. I know it’s hard to swallow, but I had to study the 2008 recession for my dissertation in economics and, well, it seems like he’s just kept the company afloat long enough to get his golden parachute.”

“Why do you say that?”

“No one is running this company like it’s going to last another five years, much less another fifty. What about the janitor or the billing department, or anyone looking for a decent retirement?”

“Or you?” Michael said.

“It’s not good business, I mean,” Sam evaded. “Just building your ship and sinking it when you get to your port—honestly it’s not just Omega. It’s a lot of places. With so much disposable income, it’s like the West’s best have decided whole companies are disposable, too, and whole people.”

“But Mr. Colier donates to charities, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, that’s all selfish,” insisted Sam. “He gets tax breaks. All that rainforest nonsense and the push for better energy tech’—He’s posing. Soon he’ll get out and we’ll hit the rocks.”

“People using people isn’t that new, Sam, not historically. All the more if they think the end of the world is coming.”

Sam took another sip of coffee and noticed something. “This isn’t our usual blend.”

“It’s from a small nation called Sol Este. Omega holds stock there,” Michael explained. He set his cup aside and leaned in. “Out of curiosity, Sam, if I might be so bold as to ask, what would you do if you were running this company?”

“Me? Oh, I’m far too young…”

“Hypothetically then. If you could do better than Mr. Colier…” Michael trailed off. He waited while Sam thought a thought he’d never dared put into words: He _could_ do better. He knew he could. 

But the old men were like kings, choosy about their successors, and… 

Still, who did that old man think he was anyway? 

“There _are_ ways around the trade war,” Sam said at last, more firmly than he’d spoken before. “Conglomerates we could join, lobbies we could run. I have colleagues from my university days, other international students, now making it big. See, we have three tracks at Omega: war engineering, waste management, and of course, the genomes; specifically we specialize in GMOs.”

“And you have plans for all three?”

“Yes. To start, take the GMOs: Right now, we make suggestions to developers on how to alter plant DNA, keep it from all becoming one species, because if that happens, one bad breed of crickets or one week’s hoarfrost could wipe out everything. That’s all very nice; crop breeding is an age-old tradition. But Mr. Colier is holding us back from one thing that could change everything.”

“And what is that?”

“Patents. Copyright.”

“You mean, charging people to grow your seeds?”

“Not just our seeds. Any seeds _like_ our seeds. We’d turn our consultations into blueprints and put a little trademark stamp on the corner. We’d lobby for laws that all farmers register for crop audits to make sure no one cheats and we’ll be making bread—I know I jest, but ‘we who are about to die’ will laugh at anything.”

“Can it be as bad as all that?”

“The truth is, Michael, the world is going downhill fast.”

“I suppose I can agree with you there,” sighed Michael and picked up his coffee again. 

“It’s natural that Mr. Colier would want out.” Sam licked his lips at a thought. He wondered if he was damning himself, but what could it hurt, telling an idea to someone who seemed sincerely interested? He said, “Locking ourselves away in retirement isn’t going to solve things when it all goes to pot. We need to build a business out of Armageddon.”

“What an interesting choice of words.”

“I wish I was still joking. We need to network now, build new scaffolds, prepare a world that can stand despite the chaos. Mr. Colier’s going to sell all the potential patents to public services before he leaves. I heard him speak of it. It’s madness. You know the oldest kings didn’t hand out gold. They handed out _bread_. We could be kings, Michael. Those patents would have the world eating out of our….”

A murmur of hushed older voices interrupted from the foyer. Sam bolted out of the chair, and Michael stood calmly and picked up the tray. They were away from the table before the doors opened. 

Sam felt his surety waver. The presence of the old men reminded him that there was a ladder. Whatever he knew of the top, he was still at the bottom. He’d certainly have to wait to sit in such a comfortable chair again.

But Michael put a hand on his arm. It was strange: For a moment, the morning light caught red in his blue eyes, but Sam felt only assured. Of everything.

“You know,” Michael said quietly, “I think the wonderful thing about Omega’s board in particular is they vote for new leadership whenever it’s needed.”

“You think my plans are any good?” 

“You don’t need me to tell you. I’m just a temp. Your dissertation nailed your interview, after all.”

“It would take a miracle.”

“Hm.” Michael still smiled pleasantly. He nodded politely to the executives as they filed past. They didn’t seem to see him. “Miracles happen everyday, Sam,” he said, “if you look for them.” 

He left carrying the tray, and for a moment Sam tried to remember when he’d mentioned his interview at all. 

* * *

**I** t was a kind of testament to the unchanging nature of humanity, thought Crowley, that people trust those who live in giant, golden towers right up until something happens to the tower. Glass or gold, somehow the shininess throws off common sense until someone throws a stone. 

Crowley ticked another name off his list and disembarked at the bus stop outside 52 Lime Street. He’d left Central London for last. It was outside Soho, sure, but as the skyscrapers were likely targets it was prudent to see they were taken care of. 

Crowley strode through the revolving door into the lobby—and promptly strode out again before he was seen. And he thought, very emphatically, _Shit_. 

* * *

**T** he other cardinal archangels waited for Michael in the Scalpel’s lobby. The room was bright and airy with sunstruck glass and a classy cafe. Half the facing on the walls was of rare polished wood. The rest was gold leaf. There were ferns. 

To onlookers, the archangels were just another trio of business people in fine suits, except their companion made some wonder if she’d gotten lost on her way to a church pageant.

Jaelle could have worn modern human clothes for the operation, but she was determined to remain apart from the archangels she waited on. Form shapes nature, she reasoned. Clothes shape one’s sense of duty. 

Fortunately, there was a book on these things and the book said in no uncertain terms, _robes_. When Michael had looked skeptical, Jaelle had displayed the illustrated chapter and asked a perfectly innocent question about whether something was important if an archangel wrote it down, say, three thousand years ago. And that was that.

Now Jaelle turned pages in a white folder and diligently wielded a red quill around margins of Latin-heavy text. A few more denizens strolled past. A few more heads turned. 

“Do you ever not have something to do these days, Jaelle?” asked Uriel conversationally.

“This is tomorrow’s defense, your glory,” said Jaelle, and struck a word through. “And you know what they say about idle minds.”

Uriel didn’t, but before she could ask, Michael arrived. As he crossed the polished floor, the prince let his smile go chilly. “I wish Hell had told us about this one earlier,” he said. “He’s practically Famine’s apprentice.”

“And he knows what to say?” asked Gabriel.

“It’ll occur to him,” said Michael.

Jaelle’s pen stopped. She was puzzled at the exchange. “Your grace, if you don’t mind my asking, why are we standing in the lobby of a den of iniquity?”

Sandalphon crushed his laughter into a snort.

“Well, it is,” she said.

“Just checking on things,” Michael explained patiently. “No matter how bad the world gets, the law requires ten evildoers before conviction. It can’t just be anyone. We look at city elders, state leaders, kings…”

“A board of directors?” Jaelle asked, puzzled.

“Omega has thousands of shell companies around the world,” Gabriel chimed in helpfully. “They affect law and business everywhere.” 

“And what are any keepers of gold and wheat but kings under a different name?” added Michael.

“Don’t forget the ones who _make_ war,” added Sandalphon.

“So we’re here… warning them?”

“We arrange one more chance to be good,” Michael explained, “and of course they won’t take it, being wicked. The act of evil that follows instead makes them anathema and decides the nature of their punishment.”

“So… people ought to know their crimes before they’re punished?” said Jaelle, tapping a page with the quill.

“It’s only fair.”

“Well, even this Samuel A. Wyatt can’t be worse than the Four Horsemen,” said Sandalphon.

A voice like a tomb said, “THERE ARE FEW FATES WORSE THAN WE.”

Sandalphon stiffened. Everyone did, except for Michael. The ink in Jaelle’s pen froze, too. 

Michael continued to smile. “No offense meant to present company, Azrael,” he said.

“NONE TAKEN, YOUR HIGHNESS.”

“Thank you for coming in person on such short notice.” The prince deliberately did not look over his shoulder at the Angel of Death, but his tone had gone warm and welcoming. “It’s at the top floor, I think.”

“THANKS,” said Azrael. The chill shifted away, toward the elevators.

Jaelle pinched the frosted nib of her pen and with no result sighed. She clapped the folder shut at the page that ended with _non compos mentis_. “What next, my prince?” she asked. (This title was also in the book.)

“No more battles but one,” said Michael. “Head back with the others. I’ll wait here for Azrael’s report.”

“Shouldn’t I stay?”

“Just have those pages on my desk by sunset, and get some rest.”

Jaelle hesitated a second more, then she saluted reluctantly. “Yes, my prince.”

She only lingered by the revolving door when Gabriel hung back. 

“Is something wrong?” Michael asked him.

“I was just wondering what your plans were tomorrow morning,” said Gabriel. 

“The end of the world,” Michael answered, confused. “I think our whole day is booked, Gabriel.” 

“I was just thinking maybe we could watch the sunrise,” said Gabriel. “It’s the last one, and…” To Michael’s surprise, his friend stammered a little. “We were, um, together for the first one, so it seems fitting that we be, that is…”

Michael’s expression softened. “Of course, Gabriel. There’ll be just enough time before the trial.”

Gabriel’s face broke into a smile of relief. “Okay. Great. See you there, after a bit more reconnaissance of course.”

“Be careful, Gabriel. We still don’t know how far we can trust them.”

“Maybe I’ll ask.” Gabriel saluted with a smug grin. “That’ll throw off their game.”

“See that the captain gets back alright.”

“And I will see you at sunrise.”

* * *

**A** t first, Crowley had muttered, “Back door,” and felt rather pleased with himself for keeping his cool, but then he spotted the demon strolling into the next alley with a hellhound in tow and the cool turned to chills.

 _Hastur_.

“Nngk,” said Crowley. He snatched a sudden newspaper from under his arm, snapped it open to hide his face. A moment later he glanced towards the alley and Hastur was gone. Not that this was any more reassuring. Crowley had not parted on good terms with anyone in Hell, but Hastur had _reasons_ to hate Crowley, and the duke’s reasoning always tended towards very unpleasant ends.

Maybe he could jump back on the bus, Crowley thought, but a bit of his mind that always sounded like Aziraphale asked what were the odds he’d be where angels and demons were both conniving again? Something was afoot. He would be lax not to know what it was. And so Crowley tried to think. 

The Lords of Hell liked this part of town. It was like a City Skyline of Babel. The Scalpel in particular was home to several favorites, including Omega International, and Mammon had a stake in that company that had nothing to do with stocks and bonds _[Author’s note: at least not in the figurative sense]_. 

Not having access to Lord Mammon’s files in Hell, Crowley was forced to resort to DuckDuckGo, and did so on his phone behind the newspaper. Today there was an expected retirement party, complete with cake. No other news. So why were archangels and a duke here? He’d just have to wait and investigate the aftermath.

Crowley waited for a knot of archangels to leave the building and noted that Michael was not with them, just some kind of secretary. He had to do a double-take to be sure. Definitely not Michael. Too worried for one thing. None of those haughty airs. Eyes looking all over the place. And beside that this one looked young. It was hard to think of it in any other way. Young. As in not old. Not worn down. That was… interesting. 

Crowley ducked behind the paper as she looked back. Then he put away his phone and tried to think.

He leaned sideways and turned his head just a little to catch sight of Michael, who was tapping his foot as he stared up a flight of ostentatious stairs, his back to the doors. For some reason Crowley could not explain, the archangel suddenly looked back at the street. Crowley shot upright and hid his face again.

When he looked again, Michael was gone. This was odd because, given the intact nature of every window in the building, this meant he’d simply used a different door.

A hand snatched the paper away and pushed Crowley up against the wall. A pair of angry green eyes were inches from his face. It was the secretary, but she held her sword like a soldier.

“What are _you_ doing here?” 

* * *

**H** astur had had a nightmare.

Again. 

_That witch_.

He’d only dozed off in the corner of the filing room for a few minutes, standing up even, just for a quick nap. But then he’d been walking uphill in the dark towards daylight in a place that smelled more like a grave than Hell did. Someplace where water dripped and footsteps followed—only the steps grew quieter and quieter while the dripping grew louder and louder. Finally he’d looked back, only to be blinded by light as the ground fell out from under him. Everyone knew you didn’t look back in nightmares. Everyone knew the story. 

Everyone looked back anyway. 

Hastur was tired. He’d been tired for days. There were too many wars and insurrections and disasters—all of which required his personal attendance, not because the dogs couldn’t handle themselves but because His Infernal Majesty had given him a _script_ and they had a schedule.

This must be that human thing having a lark at him. What was it called? Coma? Then why in Heaven wouldn’t it let him sleep? 

_That bloody, blessed witch._

Hastur watched through the glass panes of a side door as Michael saw off his entourage and walked over. The angel looked pleased as he let himself out—because apparently Hastur’s morning wasn’t bad enough.

“Have I kept you, Duke Hastur?”

“Just the hour,” said Hastur. He beckoned and they took a short walk. As they rounded the back corner of the building, Michael stiffened and Hastur waved a hand dismissively. “She won’t bite—unless I tell her to.”

A hellhound was snoring on the loading dock. It had three legs and one eye, but—a timely yawn revealed—all its teeth. Michael tore his eyes away, then looked up at the top of the building. “For…”

“Soul retrieval,” Hastur explained. “Special occasion.”

Michael looked pensive. “Did Lord Beelzebub mention using the hellhounds as shock troops tomorrow?” he asked.

“You mean on the _living_?”

“I mean on the soon-to-be dying.”

Hastur shrugged. “They’ll bite anything,” he said, “angels and demons included.”

“Uriel wanted me to check in on the idea.”

“You were planning on making this a ‘clean hands’ operation, weren’t you? Isn’t that the point of Wormwood?”

“It will only be clean at the point of impact. You remember Pompeii.”

Hastur turned his head on one side, then he scoffed, “You’re only bringing this up to be _merciful_?” he asked.

“Does that offend you?”

“Of course it does.”

Michael sighed roughly and asked, “Does it matter if you get to go home early?”

“Appealing to Sloth? You’re getting better at this everyday, your grace.” Hastur took a seat up on the concrete dock while Michael stood by the wall away from the teeth. “Or should I say worse?”

Michael didn’t answer. He was watching the top of the building—or something.

Hastur sighed. “I’ll consider it,” he said. “Pros and cons. Who was that new one in the lobby?”

“My assistant.”

Hastur crushed his cigarette stub on the dock, buying time to think this over. He knew the face. People talked. But this was new information. He scratched the hound between the ears. “Since when?”

“Is it important?”

That question meant it was, but Hastur didn’t remark further. _Stick to the script_ , he reminded himself. “So,” he said, rolling a new cigarette, “how did it go with the tenth ‘king’?”

“Your advice… helped,” said Michael reluctantly. 

“Of course it did.”

“How did you know what would work?”

“Humans are desperately lonely, even the worst of them,” Hastur explained. “They trust anyone who’ll share a drink or a cigarette.” 

He offered his.

“They are so strange,” Michael sighed, and took it. 

* * *

**C** rowley tried to say, “Me?” but it came out, “ _Meep_.” 

To his surprise the angel’s voice dropped immediately to a hurried whisper. “You’re Raphael’s brother?”

“How d’you spot me?”

“ _They_ spotted you,” the angel added, a bit louder, “ _you foul fiend_.”

Ah.

The other archangels were striding calmly towards him and traffic was stopping since they were ignoring all the red lights. They didn’t flinch or rush. _Dramatic bastards_ , Crowley thought. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” the angel added, and then her voice dropped again to that hurried whisper, “You need to run—”

“Sharp sword in the way—”

“You need to run _through_ that door, _into_ the lift, and _up_ to the thirty-fifth floor.”

“Come again?”

“I don’t know why, but it’s important. Now attack me.”

“If you insist.”

Crowley roared into something that for just an instant was more scales than skin.

A few passersby fainted. Jaelle tumbled to the pavement but righted herself on one knee, still clutching her weapon. By then, Crowley had reverted to his human form, turned on one stiletto heel, and sprinted through the revolving door. He snapped his fingers as the archangels followed, and the door kept on revolving, throwing first Gabriel, and then Uriel and Sandalphon back out onto the street.

Meanwhile Crowley crossed the foyer with long strides. He pushed into the first lift to open, and shoved others out, flourishing his lanyard and ID.

“Sorry, out of the way, emergency, _thank you!_ ”

He slammed the close-door button and the lift went up. 

At the revolving door, Uriel shoved a hand out and caught the framework. The door struck her arm and the whole contraption buckled. The shock threw it from its bearings and cracked the glass. Her arm was fine. 

Uriel drew back to brush off her sleeve. Sandalphon was out first, still striding at a quick march, his eyes fixed on the numbers above the offending lift. They were, of course, counting up. With a flourish he snapped his fingers.

The lift jerked down. Crowley braced himself on the wall and cursed. Sensing the ethereal interference, he snapped his fingers. 

The lift went up. Sandalphon snapped again.

Crowley snapped again.

Sandalphon snapped. 

Crowley snapped. 

Jaelle skidded to a halt behind Sandalphon. “It would be quicker to meet him wherever he’s going,” she said. 

“That could be anywhere,” said Gabriel.

“We can get the next lift.” Uriel hit the button by the door. “Odds are he knows about the plan.” 

Crowley’s lift jerked and continued upward.

And Jaelle held her breath.

* * *

**M** ichael and Hastur waited in a haze of communal smoke. Hastur was pacing the concrete dock and Michael leaned on the brick wall nearby. Now and then, he tapped a few ashes over the water grate. 

It was comfortable. This bothered Hastur. He wouldn’t say so, of course. But putting on tours to handle an angel prince’s breakdowns was not how he thought he’d be managing Armageddon Two. He had his orders, but you fell into habits. That was how life went. What became habit became comfortable.

It bothered him that it might be comfortable for Michael, too, so at last Hastur snickered a little.

“What?” asked Michael, preemptively insulted.

“I still can’t believe you were going to try—”

“I wasn’t going to leave something this crucial to demons,” Michael interrupted.

“We’re not pretty enough to flirt anyway,” said Hastur. It was a line from his script. Hastur reached down for the cigarette. Michael pulled it back. Smirking, Hastur stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned his head like a vulture, right on cue. He said, “Although, if you had to actually kiss someone, you’d give them frostbite, your gracefulness.”

“ _Archangels_ don’t kiss people.”

“Not even in some cultural way?” 

“I know that’s not what you mean.”

“But you know what I mean?.”

To Hastur’s surprise, Michael took another pull from the cigarette without answering. He _kept_ not answering.

“Don’t you?” Hastur asked.

“I’m not blind,” Michael snapped. “I could figure it out.”

Hastur snickered again. “We demons already did.”

“Of course _you_ did. But it’s a human thing.” 

“You’ve walked about as humans.”

“Not like that.”

“Isn’t that what this is all about?” asked Hastur. He reached for the cigarette again. Michael let him have it. “They got everything, and now it’s our turn?” 

“This isn’t about everything. Just… important things.”

“Well, what do you and your boyfriend have planned for after?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m changing the subject,” said Hastur with feigned patience. “Assuming humankind comes to an end, Earth goes silent, what are your plans after?”

The angel craned his neck to look up the side of the building. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Hastur deadpanned. “Six _thousand_ years you all were ready to rub a victory in our faces, and now you don’t know?”

Michael didn’t answer. He stared back up at the sky.

“No celebratory parade? A party for new beginnings? Not even a cake?”

“I suppose some people care for those things,” said Michael. 

“Not you?”

“I’m… tired.” 

Something in the air changed and they both looked up. Hastur hopped back up to his feet as nimbly as a frog. “There we go,” he said with a clap. He clicked his tongue and the hellhound twitched an ear and sat up. Hastur pointed to the top floor without looking up. “Go on, girl. Fetch.”

The hellhound’s eyes flashed red and it sprang through the dock door and up a side stair, howling its ominous wail. Michael stared at Hastur as he grinned after it.

“All the charity in the world can’t cover using sweatshops,” laughed Hastur. “Bet Dagon’ll have him on the rack in five minutes or less and—What?” 

Michael was smiling amid twists of smoke. “It’s done,” he said.

“Come again?”

“I said, it’s done.”

“I applaud the hero of the hour.” Hastur offered an only half-mocking bow. Michael waved the gesture away. 

“I don’t think I have felt like this since…” Michael sighed and let his shoulders drop. “I don’t think I remember ever feeling like this.” A short, sad laugh seemed to catch him by surprise, but the next one cracked through the first, like something was shaking loose.

“Like what?” Hastur asked.

Michael shook his head. He turned away and leaned on the wall to hide most of his face. He was grinning like a fool. And beside that he was practically shining.

“Like _what_?” Hastur repeated. He sniffed the cigarette to check something and when that was fruitless, tossed it in the drain and hopped off the dock. “What’s so amusing, your prettiness?”

“Nothing.”

“I take it back,” Hastur said. “You’re getting too much like a demon if you’re enjoying this so much.”

“You think I’m _enjoying_ this?”

“No? Then what’s so funny? Hey, your highness?” Hastur tapped Michael’s shoulder. “Your graceful loveliness?” He tapped again. Michael suddenly caught his hand and turned around. The angel slumped back against the wall, beaming, but his eyes were water blue. 

“Tomorrow it’ll all be over, Duke Hastur. Won’t that be wonderful?”

 _Flooding dams_ , Hastur thought. He couldn’t shake the image, although _he_ was certainly shaking. He hadn’t expected that either. He had cues. He had lines. Tears of joy were completely off the script, and the joy was catching even to a wretched soul like his.

“Yeah,” he said, and smiled back like some kind of idiot. “About f—king time.”

_What moron is managing the prompter?_

Hastur ignored the question, but it was probably the same moron who in the next moment decided to kiss an angel.

* * *

**U** riel’s foot had started to tap. Within a few seconds, the tap was a kind of jitter down her entire leg. 

“What is taking so long?” 

“It is a very tall building,” Sandalphon observed sagely. 

“How about we fly up?”

“We can’t fly up,” said Gabriel.

“Why not?” Uriel still watched the numbers. “That’s Crowley. He clearly doesn’t have the Stone because he _ran_. Now we could catch him.”

“But the humans… We can’t interfere,” said Sandalphon.

Jaelle looked back across the grand lobby. “Where’s Michael?” she asked, which made them all look around more diligently. 

“Must be meeting with Azrael already,” said Gabriel. 

The archangels suddenly relaxed.

The lift’s doors opened with a _ping!_ It was empty. 

The archangels didn’t move, so Jaelle stuck her hand in the gap and the doors stopped closing. 

“What is it?” she asked in bewilderment. 

Uriel was beaming. “Crowley’s too late to interfere, whatever he’s doing,” she explained. “We were worried for nothing.”

Jaelle regarded the staring faces around the lobby as the archangels chuckled. The man at the front desk was pointing a security guard towards them.

“Why don’t I just check…?” Jaelle began.

“No can do, captain. Crowley is a very dangerous demon. You were lucky to survive him on the first encounter.”

“I was?”

“Leave the sinners to whatever torments he has planned for them. They clearly deserve it.”

“I thought that wasn’t decided until tomorrow—”

“We’re fine, officer,” Gabriel said and the security guard who was jogging over stopped abruptly. He stood straight, turned on his heel, and quick-marched back to his post, much to the bewilderment of reception. 

Jaelle looked from him to Gabriel and back. The archangel grinned. 

“No worries.”

“I don’t understand—” 

“Now, captain. What have we learned about questions?” laughed Sandalphon.

“We got what we need,” added Gabriel. “Come along.”

The archangels strode off through the lobby of puzzled denizens. Jaelle didn’t follow, but she dropped her hand from the lift’s open door.

“What _we_ need?” she repeated. She clutched the folder in her hand and glanced up, as if she could see through thirty-five floors of steel and cement. Then the door shut with a _ping!_ like an epiphany.

Quickly, Jaelle reopened the folder and turned several pages. There was a list, she’d seen it seven pages in but hadn’t read it yet…

The names of the ten representative “Doers of Evile”— _silent “e” mandatory_ —were set off with bullet points.

Jaelle ignored the first nine and looked at the tenth:

_Samuel Arnold Wyatt, London, UK_

Under Jaelle the floor seemed to tilt.

“Coming, captain?” Gabriel called back merrily. Sandalphon was resetting the revolving door on its pivot because he had no idea a typical middle-aged man couldn’t do this. 

_You’re not_ preventing _things from getting worse_. Jaelle put a hand on the wall to steady herself, shut the folder, and stared after them. _You’re all_ making _things worse_.

“Time waits for no one,” Gabriel added.

 _And you’re smiling._

It had been different before. It really had. Jaelle had had this idea, a kind of theory. It went something like this: The world might end if humans don’t repent, so we’ll save as many humans as we can and maybe the world will be saved. And in the meantime, we’ll do everything possible to make sure this kind of thing doesn’t happen again. We’ll _fix_ this, nip the war in the bud, and everything will _work out_. Everything will be _fine_ . In time, they’ll realize it was wrong going about things this way. They’ll realize they were just too far away to see it. Blinded by—What was it called? Right, “learned helplessness.” They’ll be happy about this. They’ll be relieved. Because they are _angels_ —because we are _all_ angels, and deep down all we really want to do is the _right_ thing, because we love G-d and She loves the world through us. 

_Because we’re the good guys_.

It was not going to be fine.

All these considerations passed through Jaelle’s mind in less than a second. By then, the humans in the lobby had all gone back to working and chatting and dining, because little miracles by archangels were bigger than anything Jaelle could do. An archangel could summon lightning, could raise the dead, could even make a few dozen humans ignore a reality that had burst through their doors two minutes ago—leaving them wondering at nothing but the scuffs on the floor and an unseemly dent in a door frame.

Jaelle could fix paperwork and brew coffee.

She shut the folder and walked slowly towards three of the most powerful beings in the world, and she thought of a coffee mug in the barracks with some Latin on it: _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?_

She thought about it because she needed a thought to put the anger in. She couldn’t shout. She couldn’t frown. She could not even _seethe_. No, tomorrow she had to save the world, so today she mustn’t get angry. 

Today she had to smile.

* * *

**C** rowley knew many things.

He knew hellhounds could be seen. He knew people chose not to see them. He knew this was because the beasts were so utterly terrifying that one’s eyes simply avoided looking. Sure, you got the sweaty palms and the stomachache either way, but you blamed it on love or lunch. You also got that feeling that the hairs on the back of your neck were standing up. Unpleasant, certainly, but small change compared to thinking about death.

Crowley had been thinking about Death a lot as his phone rang out for the bookshop. Aziraphale wasn’t back yet then. He and The Them were posting emergency shelter maps around London wit. He had to tell him about this: The archangels, in London a day early. The Angel of Death at their conference call and Hastur in an alley besides. And that other angel… 

Crowley put the phone away as the lift’s numbers hit thirty-four. At thirty-five, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The bell over the doors went _ping!_

Azrael stood at the end of the foyer at the top of the lift and a large, sulfur-swathed hellhound sat at heel right by the edge of his long black cloak. Azrael’s presence was heavy on the air, such that it made Crowley feel squashed. The Angel of Death was something like an archangel, if one thought of archangels as those who gave rather than received orders. But he was never listed with them, being a kind of angel all his own. He was born last, rumors said, just before it was declared that Leviathan would die, but no one could remember for sure.

At some time in history, the Angel of Death had not resembled a skeleton, but for centuries now he’d made it his brand. It helped people get with the program when he turned up, even if he only turned up in person on very special occasions.

The lift doors were shutting again. Crowley stopped them with a hand and held his breath. Someone was going to die. What did that mean? Looking around, he spotted a defibrillator in a glass cabinet on the wall. He eyed the hellhound again. 

He knew he didn’t have much time, so his plan went something like this: “Something-something, archangels, something-something, hellhound, _ergo_ something-something, stop this from happening whatever it is.” This was followed by the helpful recollection, “Freshly dead but intact humans can be shocked back to life.” 

And so Crowley bolted out of the lift and to the wall, one hand grasping at his lanyard as the rest of him aggressively remembered that emergency jackets look very official only if you run _towards_ the danger.

“Clear the way, clear the way,” he said, and wretched the red box from its glass cabinet. 

He ran for the doors next. Death-angel and demon-dog turned as one. Crowley skidded to a stop in front of them and the pointed heels of his shoes left tracks in the tiles . Crowley tore the door open and ran inside with the defibrillator over his head, screaming, “Emergency!” in case the people might not have already known. 

The reaction was not what he’d expected. 

There was cake. Sheet cake. It was white with serif text in blue which read “Congrat—your ret—Mr. Co—,” because there were pieces cut out already. It sat in the middle of the table and everyone was busy with a china plate and silver fork seeing to its demise. One might judge the progress of conversation by who had already finished. The one at the head of the table had not even started. 

This one, Sam Wyatt, pushed himself upright in a very comfortable chair. Then he stood. It was a kingly way of standing, and Crowley had a very bad feeling about that. The man was far younger than anyone in the room, and Crowley had known too many young kings. 

The man asked levelly, “Who authorized you to be in here, ma’am?”

The defibrillator was still over Crowley’s head. He turned his head on one side. His voice was the twang of a doomed guitar. “Emergency?” he suggested.

There were ten men sitting at the table. And there were eleven chairs. This would have been fine, except there were eleven men in the room and the last was on the floor. He lay on his back by the tea and coffee trolley, several degrees more dead than alive. There wasn’t even a slice of cake for him.

The calm at the table was… surreal.

One elderly man said, “Sam was just telling us how we’re all going to be filthy rich.” He was matter-of-fact. So was his haircut.

“He really is a brilliant young man. I don’t know why we didn’t notice before,” said another, who was stick thin as a rake.

“Studied in the Americas, you know,” added his neighbor.

Crowley’s eyes swept the table to confirm that yes, these were really humans and not demons playing house. Crowley looked back at Sam. Sam as in Samæl? No, this was a human’s aura. 

And so was that of the man on the floor, however faint. Crowley shook himself out of shock and ran to the coffee trolley. 

Sam stuck out a foot.

Crowley did an impressive cartwheel which would have been far more impressive if he had not landed on one shoulder to save the defibrillator. He hissed as he righted himself, threw the case open, and switched on the charge.

Sam made a small bow to polite applause. 

Another man said to Crowley, “I happen to know the executor of Mr. Colier’s living will, and he would tell you if he were here that Mr. Colier abhors such things as those.”

“Right-o, you get me a copy of that in writing.” Crowley grabbed the paddles. His palms were sweaty and his hand slipped.

Six inches from his nose, something went, “ _Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_ …”

Crowley swallowed, and the sound prowled down his throat. He looked up into the glowing red eye of the half-blind hellhound. It didn’t have a breed, not really. Its breed was simply all that was not “good dog.” 

Slowly, Crowley raised a hand to stop time. He snapped. The gears of reality jerked on their spools to comply—but then they buckled back in place like they’d thrown a pesky stone. 

Time rambled on. 

“DEMON,” said Azrael, “ARE YOU FAMILIAR WITH THE SAYING ‘TIME AND TIDE WAITS FOR NO MAN’?”

“Yeah,” Crowley croaked. 

The hellhound’s only red eye blinked like a pulsing ember. The beast dropped its toothy jaw. Slobber hissed like acid as it dripped between sharp, yellow teeth. 

“I DO NOT WAIT EITHER.”

Crowley shrugged and then, in proper rebellious fashion, he grabbed up both paddles and shouted, “Clear!” 

* * *

**I** t wasn’t cultural.

The last time Hastur had kissed an angel he had been one. That kiss had tasted like cool water and soft light and soaring music. It hadn’t been cultural either. It had been for science—conducted under controlled conditions and with great scrutiny by his peers. Both parties involved had been very pleased with the results. They had, of course, dutifully put all this information into their report, including the strange aftereffect of blushing anytime they thought of it for hours after. 

_This_ kiss tasted like an ashtray—but it felt like fire. It didn’t cool—it _burned_ . It didn’t shine—it _glowed_ . And it did not sing—it _roared_ . Hastur was responsible for none of these things. And at that very moment Hastur didn’t care because it was still, for lack of a better word, _good_. 

Until Michael slapped him in the face.

Not a painful slap. The Archangel Michael had once shattered the floor of Heaven, and a slap was nothing compared to that. But Hastur still staggered in shock, nursing his jaw. 

“You can just say stop, your highnessness.”

Michael looked as shocked as he was. He still had his hand raised. Shreds of fire danced across the fingertips. He said, “I didn’t mean to. We don’t… I don’t… I didn’t know what to do.” 

“Maybe, not _that_.” Hastur glared a wounded glare. He felt hollowed out. “My bad,” he added grudgingly, “got carried away.”

“So did I.”

 _But you used Torchfire to make up for what you lacked_ , Hastur realized. _How did you know to do that?_

Michael was staring at his hands as if wondering the same thing. Without thinking, Hastur put his own fingers around them and brushed little bits of fire away. “No worries,” he said, still like a moron. “Happens to the best and the worst of us.”

 _Bless method acting and all its forms_ , he thought. Lie too long and the part becomes you, another habit, another comfort. You lie to yourself, tell a story when it’s just instinct, and appetite, and… bad dreams. 

Coma. Or whatever. 

“No worries,” he repeated. “You were right. I was wrong. You figured it out just fine.” 

Michael caught the proffered banter. “Well,” he said, and cleared his throat, “I’m not an idiot.”

“That makes one of us.” Hastur made a mental note to slap _himself_ later for that one. 

Before Michael could answer, the highest window of the building went _crash!_

* * *

**H** ellhounds don’t know their own strength. They don’t have to. And so the charge of the hellhound as it grabbed Crowley’s collar took them straight through the glass window. 

This should have been impossible, but Crowley watched a lot of action movies, and so the unbreakability of high-rise window glass had never occurred to him. Now he found both himself and the hound suspended for just a moment in airy space while bits of glass tinkled around them cinematically. Unbothered by this interruption, Death swung his scythe over Mr. James Colier while the one called Sam stared out the window, his jaw agape.

Then the demon and the hellhound fell. 

The last dive Crowley had taken like this, he’d had a lot farther to think—but at least this time he had wings. They shot out and he spun and shoved and kicked with a shout, until the hellhound lost its hold and Crowley lost his coat. With a doppler whine, the dog fell away into the next alley.

Crow wings flaring, Crowley swung up into the air like a stunt actor on a wire, soared over Lime Street, and then dove west towards Soho. He did not look back. Only a fool would.

* * *

**“M** inister Peterson? Sir?”

The House of Commons was just letting out for a recess when a woman wearing glasses and a rather old-fashioned dress hurried up to Minister Til Peterson. 

In government, as a general rule, anyone hurrying up to you is a bad sign. Even after ten years Peterson could not quite stop his frown.

Then he saw the clipboard and loosed a quiet little sigh of relief. 

_Ah_ , he thought, _a poll_.

“Minister Peterson, how are you today? My name is Anathema Device and if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to ask a few questions on behalf of the Tadfield Amateur Meteorological Society—We call ourselves the _TAMS_.”

Peterson brightened. There were benefits to being in charge of boring laws that no one read or debated very much. (Most benefits being one’s constituents didn’t complain.) But he did feel underappreciated most days.

“Lovely. Fire away.”

“Well, I have three questions.” She held up the clipboard. “I don’t want to keep you—and I apologize but they’re mostly kids—so let’s start with ‘What would London do in the event of an impending asteroid strike?’”

A few minutes later, Anathema held a clipboard of information and was leaving behind a very happy Minister Peterson. She stepped outside one of the many side doors of Westminster Hall and sighed with relief. 

“Well,” she said, “at least there’s that.”

She spotted Aziraphale coming up the walk with The Them, all carrying scroll cases and buckets of poster glue. They stopped at the edge of the pavement and waved. 

And that was when Crowley crash-landed on the statue of Richard the First.

* * *

**M** ichael and Hastur waited until the humans were gone. 

The death of the CEO was as good a reason to break early for lunch, so soon the lift doors shut on the last of them. Then the other pair opened. Michael stepped out, just as Hastur swarmed in from the stairwell. 

Someone had stretched caution tape across the gaping hole Crowley had left behind, because the void and the height weren’t enough of a warning to some. Hastur reassembled himself beside it and clutched at one of the glass spars as he looked down. The wind nearly whipped his wig off. Vertigo hit and he promptly threw up over the edge. Then he clutched his stomach, craned his neck, and glowered through dark eyes at the traffic below.

“Crowley,” he snarled as he wiped at his mouth. 

He looked back and realized Azrael was still there. The Angel of Death’s face was expressionless, but that was something of a given. 

Hastur averted his eyes again. He’d never minded the first three Horsemen, but he certainly never wanted to see Azrael’s bony face twice. The first time had been bad enough, and that had only been out of the corner of his eye when—

Haster clutched his stomach and got sick again. 

“The soul is gone?” Michael was asking. He was glancing between the abandoned defibrillator and table where a sheet cake was going stale, and avoiding direct eye-to-glowing-eye contact.

“YES, YOUR HIGHNESS. WAS HEAVEN PARTICULARLY INVESTED?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“IT’S ALL THE SAME TO ME, YOUR GRACE. THAT IS THE POINT.” 

Hastur stared at the window, only half listening. He fumbled for a cigarette but realized he was bleeding. He could taste blood in his mouth, too, and realized he’d bit his tongue.

What was he _thinking_? 

He heard rather than saw the preening that meant Michael was pulling himself back together. The room grew a few degrees warmer. 

This was off the script alright, but suddenly the improv was far from amusing. Hastur stood and stared up at the cloudcover. He started when Michael touched his arm.

“Will the hound be alright?”

“Sure, peachy,” said Hastur quickly. “They drag souls out of hurricanes. She’ll hunt him down easy. Worse case, the guy goes poltergeist a while and—” 

“Good.” Michael stepped back and said, “Do give the Dark Council my regards, especially Mammon. His work here was invaluable.” 

“Pretty sure he could put a price on it.” Hastur smiled. Then he frowned when Michael didn’t. “Don’t go all frosty on me now, your gracefulness.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Michael. “But we really shouldn’t waste any more time.”

“Come again?”

“We both have much to do.”

 _Damn_ , thought Hastur. He could have screamed, but he didn’t. Instead he leafed through mental pages in his script. _And here we are_ , he thought: _the predictable closing scene: You like to dance near the fire then turn into an asshole because being bad to bad people proves—to yourself and nobody else—that you’re too good to burn_.

“Sure thing, your beneficence,” said Hastur aloud. He snapped his fingers and a few noisy maggots appeared to gorge themselves on the unfortunate cake. “I get it.”

“What do you get?”

Hastur shoved his hands into his coat pockets and slunked towards the stairs. “You were just having a joke.” 

“What?” said Michael.

“A joke. That’s all we are to you.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Michael glanced at the defibrillator, then the window, and then he hurried after the demon. “Hastur, we’re both professionals, I hope you realize that.”

“Sure.”

“We can’t afford distractions.” 

“You never asked what I was going to do.”

“When?”

“After.”

“What’s it matter? This alliance is nothing personal.”

“For you.” Hastur drew a deep breath and turned at the stairwell door. “It’s nothing personal _for you_.”

Michael stopped short like he’d been shot. “What?”

“What?” Hastur countered. “You come Downstairs for a bit of distraction, then head home feeling better, because all that misery has nothing to do with you—”

“That’s not why—”

“Isn’t it? Demons and damned souls let you feel better about being an angel. But if this all fails, _you_ can try again. _We_ can’t. Not that that matters to you. You’re too good, too perfect, and too blessedly _untouchable_ to care.”

“Hastur—”

“I’m sorry to keep you, _your grace_. I won’t distract you further from your happily ever after.” 

Hastur pushed in the door and took the first flight of stairs before he stopped. He touched his lips. He hissed a curse, and bit the offending hand hard on the finger.

Everyone knew you didn’t look back. 

He might have imagined the door opened behind him, but Hastur wasn’t about to chance it. He burst into his swarm and spilled over the landing immediately. He dropped straight to the ground floor, snarling and swelling as he gained speed. When he hit bottom, he plunged even further, gnawing straight through the basements and the parking garages—into Hell.

* * *

**B** ack at the bookshop, a ladybird marched slowly across Anathema’s Shambles. A cork, a nail, and a marble orbited the same string in a lazy spiral. Presently, the insect made an about face at the end of the line and immediately became two ladybirds. They marched on, as if neither had noticed its twin.

Crowley was telling his story of the morning. The Them were still working on boats of fish ’n’ chips. Dog, who had trotted in moments ago from taking his troops through their paces, dug into a dog-safe dish of scraps at Adam’s knee.

“Pretty sure it’s the one from Raphael’s letter: Jaelle,” Crowley said. He was pacing and expertly darning a ripped stocking on one hand. “Someone close to the archangels, right in Michael’s blindspot. Might be an ally.”

“Well, she certainly was today,” said Aziraphale, tidying his desk.

“She could be an assassin,” suggested Adam. “Take Michael out.”

“Oh goodness, the archangels are training the guardians away from their true nature badly enough without our help,” said Aziraphale. 

“What kind of board of directors meets on a Sunday anyway?” asked Brian, licking greasy fingers. “Isn’t it the day most older folks are religious?”

“Actually, money is a kind of religion to some people,” remarked Wensleydale. 

“Like idolatry,” Adam added.

“So they bow down to cow statues then?” asked Brian.

“Is that why they call it the stock market?” added Adam, looking at Anathema, who giggled despite herself.

Aziraphale turned pages in the Second Edition. “Either way, we have no more time to spare than before.” 

“Anything interesting on the Shambles, Anathema?” asked Crowley.

“It’s been like this for weeks,” said Anathema, watching the string. “I change the angle, and… Look, there’s two of everything, like I’m at some sort of… nexus, a crossing point. I think there’s something that needs to be done and I haven’t done it yet or maybe I should have done it but maybe there’s still time, but either way, I don’t know what it is.”

“How do you mean?” asked Crowley.

“If I knew _how_ I meant, I could tell you,” said Anathema. “But it’s been this way since _that_.”

They glanced across the room as she nodded towards the unconventional resident in the umbrella stand. Like its owner it seemed concerned with appearances; unlike anything else in the shop, the sword refused to gather dust.

“Goodness,” said Aziraphale. “No time to lose then?”

“None.” Giving the Shambles a little snap to startle its passenger, Anathema sat back with a sigh. The lone ladybird landed on the Second Edition as Aziraphale lay it open on his desk.

“Anathema, I’ll give you a lift to Mayfaire. Need to set up surveillance,” said Crowley. “Come on, kids. Dog…” 

There was a _ding!_ as the group left the shop by the front door, and the _clonk_ of a latch as Aziraphale locked the door behind them. It was very quiet for some time, but for the faintest sound of six steady footsteps. 

The ladybird marched across the words “which would be judged,” and made an about face. With its twin, it marched down the following line: “then shalt thou declare it Anathema.”

* * *

**D** own in Hell, Hastur pulled a toothbrush from his mouth and spat. The offending foam landed in the river of hellfire that ran around the throne room. It hissed. 

His King was still amused.

“I would have paid to be there in person, Hastur,” laughed the Accuser. The devil dropped the curl of copper hair onto the golden censer beside a withered white feather. It caught sparks on its ends, then started to slowly but surely burn to black. 

Lounging back, the devil tapped the dish with one claw. It spun on a pretty gold chain and nightmarish visions danced in the smoke. 

“You know, Hastur darling,” he went on, “I was going to let you off with a six out of seven. I never _dreamed_ you’d go for the full set.” 

The toothbrush snapped. Hastur threw it in the current, fetched another from a pocket and sawed his teeth some more. He thought very hard about the state of his teeth. He did _not_ think at all about details he’d left out of his report. 

At last the devil sighed and sat up on the throne. “You know the reason we get along, Hastur? Of all my demons, you are the only one who wants the exact same thing I do. I never have to worry you won’t deliver. You may have been my last demon, but you’re first in a class all your own.”

Hastur continued to stare across the river at the wall just behind the throne. The very last sigil in the memorial flickered once and he thought very hard about why it shouldn’t.

“So,” said the one on the throne, “Heaven has its ten sinners for the trial. Now we just need someone to bring the hurt home, a scapegoat to put it all in jeopardy.”

Startled, Hastur dropped the second wretched toothbrush into the fiery current. “I thought you wanted him to think everything’s fine, my King,” he said.

“It’s not much of a crime if it all comes by trickery. This whole thing still lacks personal investment.”

“You mean it has to be a choice?”

“At least as much a one as he gave others,” the devil explained. “We need to make a _pariah_ , Hastur. And it has to _hurt_. Michael can’t trust anyone but himself by the end. We are _using_ the Seven Deadly Sins, but what we are _aiming_ for is idolatry—the total abandonment of G-d Herself. I don’t have to tell you what it takes for an angel to do that willingly.”

He didn’t. Hastur considered this carefully. Then he thought about an unanswered question and an angel in out-of-place clothes. At last he spat one more time for good measure and stood up. 

“Actually, your Infernal Majesty,” he said, “I think I’ve got someone in mind.”

* * *

**M** ichael woke with a start in his legal office. Because he carried no sword these days, this start did not end with the desk being cloven in half. Instead he stared across a sea of paperwork like it was about to attack him.

The feeling did not fade with the dream.

A moment later he realized someone had spoken, and he looked up at the door. Jaelle was holding a carafe and a mug. There was gold on both.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked.

“Long night ahead,” Jaelle said. “I’ve come bearing tidings of hot coffee, your grace.”

_[Author’s note: It had been only a matter of time before Jaelle had taken her duties as Michael’s assistant to the point of coffee. There was that book on the subject, after all, and she was Jaelle.]_

“And I brought this back.” Jaelle nodded as she entered. She carried the white folder under her arm. The gold trim glittered. Everything tomorrow would glitter. Even the devil. It was tradition. 

Jaelle crossed the office to the desk and carefully poured out a cup of coffee. “It is… odd that we had business on a _Sunday_.”

“Sometimes these things can’t be helped,” said Michael. “I still have the revised defense to rewrite for the ceremonies tomorrow, and the itineraries, and guard rotations besides…” The smell of coffee hit Michael’s nostrils and he broke off with a sigh. He took the offered cup and Jaelle set down the folder on one part of the general heap. “How horrible was it?”

“Not as horrible as I thought it would be.” 

“Of course we plead for mercy, soldier. The rest is _his_ job,” Michael said. He took a sip of the coffee and noticed something. “This coffee _isn’t_ bitter.”

“Is it supposed to be?”

“It is when Gabriel brews it.”

“Ah.” Jaelle coughed. “Lord Gabriel and I have different philosophies about coffee…” 

“Oh?”

“He boils it, and I make it the right way.”

Michael laughed out loud and was startled at himself. He cleared his throat and added calmly, “That will do it.”

“He makes a lovely cup of tea though,” Jaelle added.

He did, actually. “Where did you find this?” Michael asked.

“It’s leftover. From this morning. You wanted me to choose the coffee?” Jaelle spoke in a tone that said this reminder was merely a formality and not at all because a sleep-deprived prince might have forgotten. (Tact was also in the book.) “It’s fair trade, actually. Esteban still had ideas of being a benevolent autocrat when he made the contract.”

“Esteban?”

“My last charge.” Jaelle began gently straightening up the sea of chaos. A swell of bruised compassion in the air betrayed the menial task. 

Michael hid behind his next sip as he flinched with… Well, it couldn’t be guilt, could it? He said, “What happened?”

“I failed.” 

Michael frowned. “Why… do you say that?”

Jaelle kept her eyes down. “He… I’m sorry.” 

“What happened?”

Jaelle’s hands went still. “He said he was ‘tired of waiting.’”

“For…”

“Death. He was locked in a place he didn’t want to be,” Jaelle explained stiffly. “He kept a gun with him all the time, even under his pillow. I talked him down some nights.”

Michael realized, “You’re talking about _suicide_.”

“Yes, but someone else got him first. He stopped being careful. They usually send us there in person, when it’s time, you know. Just… last rites.”

“And…?”

“And they didn’t. I don’t know why.” Jaelle looked up. There was something hard as emeralds in her eyes as she waited. Michael forgot his coffee. 

It had been the right thing to do. Michael _knew_ it had been the right thing. If you did the right thing, you weren’t _allowed_ to feel guilt, and if you did feel guilt, you didn’t apologize. 

You probably risked compromise even offering consolation, but he dared to say, “I’m sorry to bring you back to somewhere painful.”

There was just a beat more of silence, then Jaelle looked away. “It can’t be helped. Can it?” she said, and stacked the last of the pages. Then suddenly she hung up a smile. “Is there anything else I can do for you, your grace?”

The transition was familiar, and startling for its familiarity. After all, Michael wasn’t looking in a mirror. “I’m not sure, but…” He hesitated. The words were suddenly too heavy to get out.

Jaelle looked up again. She waited again.

This time, Michael broke eye contact first. He looked at the chaos-turned-calm, all even edges and tidy piles. _If only everything could be so… nice_ , he thought. “I’ve a lot to do, soldier, but you should be resting. You’ll be on the ground tomorrow.”

“If things go as expected in court?”

“I see no reason they won’t.”

Jaelle moved to the door but stopped, then turned around. “I almost forgot…”

“Yes?”

“You haven’t been carrying a sword for weeks, so I took the liberty of searching the armory…”

She picked up something outside the doorway and turned to offer it at arm’s length for inspection. A frayed braid of blue ribbon was tied off on its belt ring. Otherwise, the whole of it gleamed like moonlight. 

Anyone who didn’t know better would think it had never been used. 

Michael made no move to touch it. 

Jaelle added, “This was the only other weapon I could find registered to your name. It’s an older model, but Pekkiel didn’t even have to hone it.”

Finally, Michael managed a nod to a corner of the room. “Put it there,” he said, and tried not to look at it.

Jaelle did, and wrung her hands. She waited a long moment before saying, “I’ll just be going—”

“Jaelle.”

“Yes?” She turned back immediately at the door.

You did not apologize for doing the right thing. 

Instead, Michael asked, “What are you going to do, after all this?”

“This?” Jaelle repeated.

“Everything. What are your plans?”

There was a beat of silence.

“None as such.”

“No?

“Well, I expect I’ll be doing what everyone will.”

“What?”

“I’ll mourn,” said Jaelle. “Goodnight, my prince. I’ll see you in court.” 

Michael didn’t know how to answer, so he didn’t, and Jaelle saluted and left.

**Author's Note:**

> (1) This fic was originally posted as a one-shot on my Tumblr, but it's been... growing... without my permission. (The ineffable hubbies and other couplings have been taking up space in my head since June. They aren't paying rent, but I love them too much to ever, ever kick them out.) 
> 
> Outside Tumblr, I've been tweeking my drafts a little for continuity but it's otherwise the same, though the title is up for changing. We'll see how this goes. Wish me luck.
> 
> (2) An ongoing Brazilian-Portuguese translation of this work is available thanks to JessRLirio: [on Wattpad here](https://my.w.tt/E945ZFZYi2)
> 
> (3) Since I'm imagining this as a TV series sequel, I'm using the pronouns from the TV series. So Michael's pronouns are he/him, Dagon switches between he/him (Ep.1) to she/her (Ep.6) as preferred, Beelzebub is they/them, etc. I think I got everyone but let me know if I missed anything and I'll fix it.


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